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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 

DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 

SOCIETIES 


PS2960 
•  I     5 
1897 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


10000652624 


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"'I'M  mighty  glad  you've  spoke'" 


IN    SIMPKINSVILLE 


Gbaracter  Xtales  P 

1ST 


RUTH    McENERY    STUART 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
SMEDLEY,  CARLETON,  AND  McNAIR 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER   &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

1897 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


CARLOTTA'S  INTENDED,  and  Other  Tales.  Illus- 
trated.    Post  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING,  and  Other  Tales.  Illus- 
trated.    Post  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

THE  STORY  OP  BAI3ETTE.  Illustrated.  Post 
Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

SOLOMON  CROW'S  CHRISTMAS  POCKETS,  and 
Other  Tales.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo,  Cloih,  $1  25. 


Pdblisited   by   HARPER   &   BROTHERS,  New   York. 


Copyright,  1897,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

An  Arkansas  Prophet 3 

Weeds ' 43 

The  Unlived  Life  of  Little  Mart  Ellen    .     .     93 

The  Dividing-fence 135 

The  Middle  Hall 165 

Miss  Jemima's  Valentine 199 

A  Slender  Romance 219 


.85  Ho  5 


ILLUSTEATIONS 


"  '  I'M  MIGHTY  GLAD  YOU'VE   SPOKE  '  "    .      .      .  Frontispiece 
"HE     HAD     BEEN     BURYING     HIS     DAILY     BUD 

FOR  THREE  WEEKS" Facing  p.  48 

'"  PRESENT  COMPANY  EXCEPTED  '  "    ....  "          80 

"  '  GET  OUT  AN'  COME   IN,   MIS'  BRADLEY  '  "      .  "          98 

"' WHITE   IS  FOR  BABIES  '  " "        126 

"THEN,  LEANING    FORWARD,   CHANGED   HYMN- 
BOOKS   WITH  HER" "        224 

"  'I'D  LIKE  TO  ESTIMATE  EXACTLY  HOW  MANY 

TIMES  '  " *'        226 

"HE  EVEN   ESCORTS   HER  TO   HER   DOOR  "    .      .  "        242 


AN  ARKANSAS   PEOPHET 
a  kew-year's  story 


AN   ARKANSAS   PROPHET 


IF  yon  would  find  the  warmest  spot  in  a  little 
village  on  a  cold  day,  watcli  the  old  codgers 
and  see  where  they  congregate.  That's  what 
the  stray  cats  do,  or  perhaps  the  codgers  follow 
the  cats.  However  that  may  be,  both  can  be  de- 
pended upon  to  find  the  open  door  where  comfort 
is.  They  will  probably  lead  you  to  the  rear  end 
of  the  village  store,  the  tobacco-stained  drawing- 
room,  where  an  old  stove  dispenses  hospitality  in 
an  atmosphere  like  unto  which,  for  genial  dispo- 
sition, there  is  none  so  unfailing. 

From  November  to  May  the  old  stove  in  the 
back  of  Chris  RoAvton's  store  was,  to  its  devotees 
at  least,  the  most  popular  hostess  in  Simpkins- 
ville.  And,  be  it  understood,  her  circle  was  com- 
posed of  people  of  good  repute.  Even  the  cats 
sleeping  at  her  feet,  if  personally  tramps,  were 
well  connected,  being  lineal  descendants  of  known 
cats  belonging  to  families  in  regular  standing. 


4  IN"   SIMPKINSVILLE 

Many,  indeed,  were  natives  of  the  shop,  and  had 
come  into  this  kingdom  of  comfort  in  a  certain 
feline  lying-in  hospital  behind  the  rows  of  barrels 
that  flanked  the  stove  on  either  side. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  December.  The  wind 
was  raw  and  cold,  and  of  a  fitful  mind,  blowing 
in  contrary  gusts,  and  throwing  into  the  faces  of 
people  going  in  all  directions  various  samples 
from  the  winter  storehouse  of  the  sky,  now  a 
threat,  a  promise,  or  a  dare  as  to  how  the  new 
year  should  come  in. 

"  Blest  if  Doc'  ain't  got  snow  on  his  coat ! 
Rainin'  when  I  come  in,"  said  one  of  two  old 
men  who  drew  their  seats  back  a  little  while 
the  speaker  pushed  a  chair  forward  with  his 
boot. 

"  Beckon  I  got  both  froze  and  wet  drops  on 
me  twix'  this  an'  Meredith's,"  drawled  the  new- 
comer, depositing  his  saddle-bags  beside  his  chair, 
wiping  the  drops  from  his  sleeves  over  the  stove, 
and  spreading  his  thin  palms  for  its  grateful  re- 
turn of  warm  steam. 

"  Sleetin'  out  our  way,"  remarked  his  neighbor, 
between  pipe  puffs.     And  then  he  added  : 

"How's  Meredith's  wife  coming  on,  doctor? 
Reckon  she's  purty  bad  off,  ain't  she  ?" 

The  doctor  was  filling  his  pipe  now  and  he  did 
not  answer  immediately  ;  but  presently  he  said, 


AN"   ARKANSAS   PROPHET  5 

as  he  deliberately  reached  forward  and,  seizing 
the  tongs,  lifted  a  live  coal  to  his  pipe  : 

"Meredith's  wife  don't  rightfully  belong  in  a 
doctor's  care.  She  ain't  to  say  sick  ;  she's  heart- 
broke,  that's  what  she  is  ;  but  of  co'se  that  ain't 
a  thing  I  can  tell  her — or  him,  either." 

"This  has  been  a  mighty  slow  and  tiresome 
year  in  Simpkinsville,"  he  added  in  a  moment, 
"an'  I'm  glad  to  see  it  drawin'  to  a  close.  It 
come  in  with  snow  an'  sleet  an'  troubles,  an'  seems 
like  it's  goin'  out  the  same  way — jest  like  the 
years  have  done  three  year  past." 

"Jest  look  at  that  cat — what  a  dusty  color  she's 
got  between  spots  !  Th'  ain't  a  cat  in  Simpkins- 
ville, hardly,  thet  don't  show  a  trace  o'  Jim 
Meredith's  Maltee — an'  I  jest  nachelly  despise  it, 
'cause  that's  one  of  the  presents  he  brought  out 
there — that  Maltee  is." 

"  Maltee  is  a  good  enough  color  for  a  cat  ef  it's 
kep'  true,"  remarked  old  Pete  Taylor — "plenty 
good  enough  ef  it's  kep'  true ;  but  it's  like  gray 
paint — it'll  mark  up  most  anything  it's  mixed 
with,  and  cloud  it." 

"  I  reckon  Jim  Meredith's  Maltee  ain't  the  only 
thing  thet's  cast  a  shade  over  Simpkinsville," 
said  old  Mr.  McMonigle,  who  sat  opposite. 

"  That's  so,"  grunted  the  circle. 

"That's   so,  shore   ez  you're  born,"  echoed 


6  IN"   SIMPKINSVILLE 

Pete.  "  Simpkinsville  has  turned  out  some  tol- 
er'ble  fair  days  since  little  May  Meredith  dropped 
out  of  it,  but  the  sun  ain't  never  shone  on  it 
quite  the  same — to  my  notion/' 

"  Wonder  where  she  is  ?"  said  McMonigle. 
"  My  opinion  is  she's  dead,  an'  thet  her  mother 
knows  it.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  ef  the  devil 
that  enticed  her  away  has  killed  her.  Once-t  a 
feller  like  that  gits  a  girl  into  a  crowded  city  and 
gits  tired  of  her,  there's  a  dozen  ways  of  gittin' 
shet  of  her." 

"  Yas,  a  hundred  of  'em.  It's  done  every  clay, 
I  don't  doubt." 

"See  that  stove  how  she  spits  smoke.  East 
wind  '11  make  her  spit  any  day — seems  to  gag 
her." 

"Yas,"  McMonigle  chuckled  softly,  as  he 
leaned  forward  and  began  poking  the  fire,  "she 
hates  a  east  wind,  but  she  likes  me— don't  you, 
old  girl  ?  See  her  grow  red  in  the  face  while  I 
chuck  her  under  the  chin." 

"Look  out  you  don't  chuck  out  a  coal  of  fire 
on  kitty  with  your  foolin',"  said  old  man  Taylor. 
"  She  does  blush  in  the  face,  don't  she  ?  An' 
see  her  wink  under  her  isinglass  spectacles  when 
she's  flirted  with." 

"That  stove  is  a  well-behaved  old  lady,"  in- 
terrupted the  doctor;  "reg'larly  gits  religion, 


AN  ARKANSAS   PROPHET  7 

an'  shouts  whenever  the  wind's  from  the  right 
quarter — an'  I  won't  have  her  spoke  of  Avith 
disrespect. 

"If  she  could  tell  all  she's  heard,  settin'  there 
summer  and  winter,  I  reckon  it  'd  make  a  hook — 
an'  a  interestin'  one,  too.  There's  been  cats  and 
mice  born  in  her  all  summer,  an'  birds  hatched ; 
an'  Rowton  tells  me  he's  got  a  dominicker  hen 
thet's  reg'larly  watched  for  her  fires  to  go  out 
last  two  seasons,  so  she  can  lay  in  her.  An' 
didn't  you  never  hear  about  Phil  Toland  hidin' 
a  whiskey  bottle  in  her  one  day  last  summer  and 
smashin'  a  whole  settin'  o'  eggs  ?  The  hen,  she 
squawked  out  at  him,  an'  all  but  skeered  him  to 
death.  He  thought  he  had  a  'tackt  o'  the  tre- 
mens, shore — an'  of  a  adult  variety." 

"  Pity  it  hadn't  a-skeert  him  into  temperance," 
remarked  the  man  opposite. 

"  Did  sober  him  up  for  purty  nigh  two  weeks. 
Rowton  he  saw  it  all,  an'  he  give  the  fellers  the 
wink,  an'  when  Pete  hollered,  he  ast  him  what 
Avas  the  matter,  an'  of  co'se  Pete  he  pointed  to 
the  hen  that  was  kitin'  through  the  sto'e  that 
minute,  squaAvkin'  for  dear  life,  an'  all  bedaubled 
over  with  egg,  an'  sez  he  :  '  What  sort  o'  dash 
blanketed  hens  hev  you  got  round  here,  settin' 
in  stoves  ?'  And  Rowton  he  looks  round  and 
Avinks  at  the  boys.     '  Hen/  says  he — c  what  hen  ? 


8  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

Any  o'  yon  fellers  saw  a  hen  anywhere  round 
here  ?' 

"  Of  co'se  every  feller  swo'e  he  hadn't  saw  no 
hen,  an'  Eowton  he  went  up  to  Pete  and  he  says, 
says  he:  'Pete/  says  he,  'you  better  go  home 
an'  lay  down.     You  ain't  well/ 

"Well,  sir,  Pete  wasn't  seen  on  the  streets  for 
up'ards  o'  three  weeks  after  that. 

"  Yas,  that  stove  has  seen  sights  and  heard 
secrets,  too,  I  don't  doubt. 

"  They  say  old  nigger  Prophet  used  to  set 
down  an'  talk  to  her  same  ez  ef  she  was  a  per- 
son, some  nights,  when  he'd  have  her  all  to  his- 
self.  Eowton  ast  him  one  day  what  made  him 
do  it,  and  he  'lowed  thet  he  could  converse  with 
anything  that  had  the  breath  o'life  in  it.  There  is 
no  accountin'  for  what  notions  a  nigger  '11  take. 

"No,  an'  there's  no  tellin'  how  much  or  how 
little  they  know,  neither.  Old  Proph',  half  blind 
and  foolish,  limpin'  round  in  the  woods,  gether- 
in'  queer  roots,  and  talkin'  to  hisself,  didn't  seem 
to  have  no  intelligence,  rightly  speakin',  an'  yet 
he  has  called  out  prophecies  that  have  come  true 
— even  befo'  he  prophesied  about  May  Meredith 
goin'  wrong. 

"Here  comes  Brother  Squires,  chawin' tobacco 
like  a  sinner.  I  do  love  a  preacher  that  '11  chaw 
tobacco. 


AN"  AEKANSAS   PEOPHET  9 

"  Hello,  Brother  Squires  V  he  called  out  now 
to  a  tall,  clerical  old  man  who  approached  the 
group.  ' '  Hello  !  what  you  doin'  in  a  sto'e  like 
this,  I  like  to  know  ?  Th'  ain't  no  Bibles,  nor 
trac's  for  sale  here,  an'  your  folks  don't  eat  mo- 
lasses and  bacon,  same  ez  us  sinners,  do  you  ?" 

"Well,  my  friends,"  the  parson  smiled  broadly 
as  he  advanced,  "  since  you  good  people  don't 
supply  us  with  locusts  and  wild  honey,  we  are 
reduced  to  the  necessity  of  eatin'  plain  bread  an' 
meat — but  you  see  I  live  up  to  the  Baptist  stand- 
ard as  far  as  I  can.  I  wear  the  leathern  girdle 
about  my  loins." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  long  leather  whip 
which,  for  safe  -  keeping,  he  had  tied  loosely 
around  his  waist. 

"Boom  for  one  more  ?"  he  added,  as,  declining 
the  only  vacant  chair,  he  seated  himself  upon  a 
soap-box,  extended  his  long  legs,  and  raised  his 
boots  upon  the  ledge  of  the  stove. 

"I  declare,  Brother  Squires,  the  patches  on 
them  boots  are  better'n  a  contribution-box,"  said 
McMonigle,  laughing,  as  he  thrust  his  hand  down 
into  his  pocket.  "  Beckon  it'll  take  a  half-dol- 
lar to  cover  this  one."  He  playfully  balanced  a 
bright  coin  over  the  topmost  patch  on  the  pas- 
tor's toe. 

"  Stop  your  laughin',now,  parson.  Don't  shake 


10  IN"   SIMPKIXSVILLE 

it  off  !  Come  up,  boys !  Who'll  cover  the  next 
patch  ?  Ef  my  Arithmetic  is  right,  there's  jest 
about  a  patch  apiece  for  us  to  cover  —  not  in- 
cludin'  the  half-soles.  I  know  parson  wouldn't 
have  money  set  above  his  soul." 

"  No,  certainly  not,  an'  if  anybody  'd  place  it 
there,  of  co'se  I'd  remove  it  immediately,"  the 
parson  answered,  with  ready  wit.  And  then  he 
added,  more  seriously  : 

"I  have  passed  my  hat  around  to  collect  my 
salary  once  in  a  while,  but  I  never  expected 
to  hand  around  my  old  shoes — and  really,  my 
friends,  I  don't  know  as  I  can  allow  it." 

Still  he  did  not  draw  them  in,  and  the  three 
old  men  grew  so  hilarious  over  the  fun  of  cover- 
ing the  patches  with  the  ever-slipping  coins  that 
a  crowd  was  soon  collected,  the  result  being 
the  pocketing  of  the  entire  handful  of  money 
by  Eowton,  with  the  generous  assurance  that  it 
should  be  good  for  the  best  pair  of  boots  in  his 
store,  to  be  fitted  at  the  pastor's  convenience. 

It  was  after  this  mirth  had  all  subsided  and 
the  codgers  had  settled  down  into  their  accus- 
tomed quiet  that  the  parson  remarked,  with  some 
show  of  hesitation  : 

"  My  brothers,  when  I  Avas  coming  towards 
you  a  while  ago  I  heard  two  names.  They  are 
names  that   I  hear   now  and   then  among  my 


AN   ARKANSAS    PROPHET  11 

people — names  of  two  persons  whom  I  have  never 
met — persons  who  passed  out  of  your  commu- 
nity some  time  before  I  was  stationed  among 
you.  One  of  them,  I  know,  has  a  sad  history. 
The  details  of  the  story  I  have  never  heard,  but 
it  is  in  the  air.  Scarcely  a  village  in  all  our  dear 
world  but  has,  no  matter  how  blue  its  skies,  a 
little  cloud  above  its  horizon — a  cloud  which  to  its 
people  seems  always  to  reflect  the  pitiful  face  of 
one  of  its  fair  daughters.  I  don't  know  the  story 
of  May  Meredith— or  is  it  May  Day  Meredith  ?" 

"  She  was  born  May  Day,  and  christened  that- 
a-way,"  answered  McMonigle.  "  But  she  was 
jest  ez  often  called  Daisy  or  May  —  any  name  thet 
'd  fit  a  spring  day  or  a  flower  would  fit  her." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  her  story,"  the  parson 
resumed,  "but  I  do  know  her  fate.  And  per- 
haps that  is  enough  to  know.  The  other  name 
you  called  was  '  Old  Proph','  or  '  Prophet.'  Tell 
me  about  him.  Who  was  he  ?  How  was  he  con- 
nected with  May  Day  Meredith  ?" 

He  paused  and  looked  from  one  face  to  another 
for  the  answer,  which  was  slow  in  coming. 

"  Go  on  an'  tell  it,  Dan'l,"  said  the  doctor, 
finally,  with  an  inclination  of  the  head  towards 
McMonigle. 

Old  man  McMonigle  shook  the  tobacco  from 
his  pipe,  and  refilled  it  slowly,  without  a  word. 


12  IN    SIMPKINSVILLE 

Then  he  as  deliberately  lit  it,  puffed  its  fires  to 
the  glowing  point,  and  took  it  from  his  lips  as 
he  began  : 

"Well,  parson,  ef  I  hadn't  o' seen  you  standin' 
in  the  front  o'  the  sto'e  clean  to  the  minute  you 
come  back  here,  I'd  think  you'd  heerd  more 
than  names. 

"  Of  co'se  we  couldn't  put  it  quite  ez  eloquent 
ez  you  did,  but  we  had  jest  every  one  of  us  'lowed 
that  sence  the  day  May  Meredith  dropped  out  o' 
Simpkinsville  the  sky  ain't  never  shone  the 
same. 

"  But  for  a  story  ?  Well,  I  don't  see  thet 
there's  much  story  to  it,  and  to  them  thet  didn't 
know  her  I  reckon  it's  common  enough. 

"  But  ez  to  the  old  nigger,  Proph',  being 
mixed  up  in  it,  I  can't  eggsac'ly  say  that's  so, 
though  I  don't  never  think  about  the  old  nigger 
without  seemin'  to  see  little  May  Day's  long  yaller 
curls,  an'  ef  I  think  about  her,  I  seem  to  see  the 
old  man,  somehow.  Don't  they  come  to  you 
all  that-a-way  ?" 

He  paused,  took  a  few  puffs  from  his  pipe,  and 
looked  from  one  face  to  another. 

"  Yas,"  said  the  doctor,  "jest  exactly  that-a- 
way,  Dan'l.  Go  on,  ol'  man.  You're  a-tellin' 
it  straight." 

"Well,  that's  what  I'm  aimin'  to  do."    He 


AN  ARKANSAS  PROPHET  13 

laid  his  pipe  down  on  the  stove's  fender  as  he 
resumed  his  recital. 

"Old  Proph' — which  his  name  wasn't  Prophet, 
of  co'se,  which  ain't  to  say  a  name  nohow,  but 
his  name  was  Jeremy,  an'  he  used  to  go  by  name 
o'  Jerry  ;  then  somebody  called  him  Jeremy  the 
Prophet,  an'  from  that  it  got  down  to  Prophet, 
and  then  Proph' — and  so  it  stayed. 

"Well,  ez  I  started  to  say,  Proph'  he  was 
jest  one  o'  Meredith's  oP  slave  niggers — a  sort  o' 
queer,  half-luney,  no-'count  darky — never  done 
nothin'  sence  freedom  but  what  he  had  a  mind 
to,  jest  livin'  on  Meredith  right  along. 

"  He  wasn't  to  say  crazy,  but — well,  he'd  stand 
and  talk  to  anything  —  a  dog,  a  cat,  a  tree,  a 
toad-frog — anything.  Many  a  time  I've  seen  him 
limpin'  up  the  road,  an'  he'd  turn  round  sudden 
an'  seemed  to  be  talkin'  to  somethin'  thet  was 
follerin'  him,  an'  when  he'd  git  tired  he'd  start 
on  an'  maybe  every  minute  look  back  over  his 
shoulder  an'  laugh.  They  was  only  one  thing 
Proph'  was,  to  say,  good  for.  Proph'  was  a  cap- 
ital A-l  hunter — shorest  shot  in  the  State,  in 
my  opinion,  and  when  he'd  take  a  notion  he 
could  go  out  where  nobody  wouldn't  sight  a  bird 
or  a  squir'l  all  day  long,  an'  he'd  fill  his  game-bag. 

"  Well,  sir,  the  children  round  town,  they  was 
all  afeerd  of  'im,  and  the  niggers— th'  ain't  a  nig- 


14  IN  SIMPKOrSYILLE 

ger  in  the  county  thet  don't  b'lieve  to  this  day 
thet  Proph'  would  cunjer  'em  ef  he'd  git  mad. 

"An'  time  he  takin'  to  fortune -tellin',  the 
school  child'en  thet  'd  be  feerd  to  go  up  to  him 
by  theirselves,  they'd  go  in  a  crowd,  an'  he'd  call 
out  fortunes  to  'em,  an'  they'd  give  him  biscuits 
out  o'  their  lunch-cans. 

"  From  that  time  he  come  to  tellin'  anybody's 
fortune,  an'  so  the  young  men,  they  got  him  to 
come  to  the  old-year  party  one  year,  jest  for  the 
fun  of  it,  an'  time  the  clock  was  most  on  the 
twelve  strike,  Proph'  he  stood  up  an'  called  out 
e-vents  of  the  comin'  year.  An',  sir,  for  a  crack- 
brained  fool  nigger,  he'd  call  out  the  smartest 
things  you  ever  hear.  Every  year  for  five  year, 
Proph'  called  out  comin'  e-vents  at  the  old-year 
party ;  an'  matches  thet  nobody  suspicioncd, 
wh}r,  he'd  call  'em  out,  an'  shore  enough,  'fore 
the  year  was  out,  the  weddin's  would  come  off. 
An'  babies  !  He'd  predic'  babies  a  year  ahead — 
not  always  callin'  out  full  names,  but  jest  insin- 
uating so  thet  anybody  thet  wasn't  deef  in  both 
ears  would  understand. 

"  But  to  come  back  to  the  story  of  May  Mere- 
dith— he  ain't  in  it,  noways  in  partic'lar.  It's 
only  thet  sence  she  could  walk  an'  hold  the  ol> 
man's  hand  he  doted  on  her,  an'  she  Avas  jest  ez 
wropped  up  in  him.     Many's  the  time  when  she 


AN   ARKANSAS    PROPHET  15 

was  a  toddler  lie's  rode  into  town,  mule-back,  with 
her  settin'  up  in  front  of  'im.  An'  then  when 
she  got  bigger  it  was  jest  as  ef  she  was  the  queen 
to  him — that's  all.  He  saved  her  from  drownd- 
in'  once-t,  jumped  in  the  branch  after  her  an 
couldn't  swim  a  stroke,  an'  mos'  drownded  his- 
self — an'  time  she  bad  the  dip'theria,  he  never 
shet  his  eyes  ez  long  ez  she  was  sick  enough  to 
be  set  up  with — set  on  the  no'  by  her  bed  all 
night. 

"  That's  all  the  way  Proph'  is  mixed  up  in 
her  story.  An'  now,  sence  they're  both  gone, 
ef  you  'magine  you  see  one,  you  seem  to  see  the 
other. 

"  But  May  Day's  story  ?  Well,  I  hardly  like 
to  disturb  it.  Don't  rightly  know  how  to  tell 
it,  nohow. 

"  I  don't  doubt  folks  has  told  yon  she  went 
wrong,  but  that's  a  mighty  hard  way  to  tell  it 
to  them  thet  knew  her. 

"  We  can't  none  of  us  deny,  I  reckon,  thet  she 
went  wrong.  A  red-cheeked  peach  thet  don't 
know  nothin'  but  the  dew  and  the  sun,  and  to 
grow  sweet  and  purty — it  goes  wrong  when  it's 
wrenched  off  the  stem  and  et  by  a  hog.  That's 
one  way  o'  goin'  wrong. 

"  Little  Daisy  Meredith  didn't  have  no  mo' 
idee  o'  harm  than  that  mockin'-bird  o'  Kow ton's 


16  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

in  its  cage  there,  tbet  sings  week-day  songs  all 
Sunday  nights. 

"  She  wasn't  but  jest  barely  turned  seventeen 
year — ez  sweet  a  little  girl  ez  ever  taught  a  Bap- 
tist Sunday-school  class — when  he  come  down 
from  St.  Louis — though  some  says  he  come  from 
Chicago,  an'  some  says  Canada — lookin'  after 
some  land  mortgages.  An',  givin'  the  devil  his 
due,  he  was  the  handsomest  man  thet  ever  trod 
Simpkinsville  streets — that  is,  of  co'se,  for  a  out- 
sider. Seen  May  Day  first  time  on  her  way  to 
church,  an'  looked  after  her — then  squared  back 
di-rect,  an'  follered  her.  Walked  into  church 
delib'rate,  an'  behaved  like  a  gentleman  re- 
ligiously inclined,  ef  ever  a  well-dressed,  city 
person  behaved  that  way. 

"  Well,  sir,  from  that  day  on,  he  froze  to  her, 
and,  strange  to  say,  every  mother  of  a  marriage- 
able daughter  in  town  was  jealous  exceptin'  one, 
an'  that  one  was  May's  own  mother.  An'  she 
not  only  wasn't  jealous — which  she  couldn't  'a* 
been,  of  co'se — but  she  wasn't  pleased. 

"  She  seemed  to  feel  a  dread  of  him  from  the 
start,  and  she  treated  him  mighty  shabby,  but 
of  co'se  the  little  girl,  she  made  it  up  to  him  in 
politeness,  good  ez  she  could,  an'  he  didn't  take 
no  notice  of  it.  Kep'  on  showin'  the  old  lady 
every  attention,  an',  when  he'd  be  in  town,  most 


AN  ARKANSAS   PROPHET  17 

any  evenin'  you'd  go  past  the  Meredith  gate  you 
could  see  his  horse  hitched  there — everything 
open  and  above  boa'd,  so  it  seemed. 

"Well,  sir,  he  happened  to  be  here  the  time 
o'  the  old-year  party,  three  year  ago.  You've 
been  here  a  year  and  over,  'ain't  you,  parson  ?" 

"Yes,  I  was  stationed  here  at  fall  conference 
a  year  ago  this  November,  you  recollect." 

"  Yas,  so  you  was.  Well,  all  this  is  about  two 
year  befo'  you  come. 

"  Well,  sir,  when  it  was  known  thet  May  Day's 
city  beau  was  goin'  to  be  here  for  the  party, 
everybody  looked  to  see  some  fun,  'cause  they 
knowed  how  free  ol'  Proph'  made  with  comin' 
e-vents,  an'  they  wondered  ef  he'd  have  gall 
enough  to  call  out  May  Day's  name  with  the 
city  feller's.  Well,  ez  luck  would  have  it,  the 
party  was  at  my  house  that  year,  an'  I  tell  you, 
sir,  folks  thet  hadn't  set  up  to  see  the  old  year 
out  for  ten  year  come  that  night,  jest  for  fear 
they'd  miss  somethin'.  But  of  co'se  we  saw 
through  it.     We  knowed  what  fetched  'em. 

"  Well,  sir,  that  was  the  purtiest  party  I  ever 

see  in  my  life.     Our  Simpkinsville  pattern  for 

young  girls  is  a  toler'ble  neat  one,  ef  I  do  say  it 

ez  shouldn't,  bein'  kin  to   forty-'leven  of  'em. 

We  'ain't  got  no,  to   say,  ugly  girls  in  town — 

never  had  many,  though  some  has  plained  down 
2 


18  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

some  when  they  got  settled  in  years ;  but  the 
girls  there  that  night  was  ez  perfec'  a  bunch  of 
girls  ez  you  ever  see — jest  ez  purty  a  show  o' 
beauty  ez  any  rose  arbor  could  turn  out  on  a 
spring  day. 

"  Have  you  ever  went  to  gether  roses,  parson, 
each  one  seemin'  to  be  the  purtiest  tell  you'd  got 
a  handful,  an'  you'd  be  startin'  to  come  away, 
when  'way  up  on  top  o'  the  vine  you'd  see  one  thet 
was  enough  pinker  an'  sweeter  'n  the  rest  to  make 
you  climb  for  it,  an'  when  you'd  git  it,  you'd 
stick  it  in  the  top  of  yore  bo'quet  a  little  higher 
'n  the  others  ? 

"I  see  you  know  what  I  mean.  Well,  that 
was  the  way  May  Day  looked  that  night.  She 
was  that  top  bud. 

"I  had  three  nieces,  and  wife  she  had  scv'al 
cousins,  there — all  purty  enough  to  draw  hum- 
min'-birds  ;  but  I  say  little  Daisy  Meredith,  she 
jest  topped  'em  all  for  beauty  and  sweetness  an' 
modesty  that  night. 

"  An'  the  stranger — well,  I  don't  hardly  know 
jest  what  to  liken  him  to,  less'n  it  is  to  one  of 
them  princes  thet  stalk  around  the  stage  an' 
give  orders  when  they  have  play-actin'  in  a  show- 
tent. 

"They  wasn't  no  flies  on  his  shape,  nor  his 
rig,  nor  his  manners  neither.      Talked  to  the 


AN   ARKANSAS   PROPHET  19 

old  ladies — ricollect  my  wife  she  had  a  finger 
wropped  up,  an'  lie  ast  her  about  it  and  advised 
her  to  look  after  it  an'  give  her  a  recipe  for 
bone-felon.  She  thought  they  wasn't  nobody 
like  him.  An'  he  jest  simply  danced  the  wall- 
flowers dizzy,  give  the  fiddlers  money,  an' — well, 
he  done  everything  thet  a  person  o'  the  royal 
family  of  city  gentry  might  be  expected  to  do. 
An'  everybody  wondered  what  mo'  Mis'  Meredith 
wanted  for  her  daughter.  Tell  the  truth,  some 
mistrusted,  an'  'lowed  thet  she  jest  took  on  in- 
different, the  way  she  done,  to  hide  how  tickled 
she  was  over  it. 

"Well,  ez  I  say,  the  party  passed  off  lovely, 
an'  after  a  while  it  come  near  twelve  o'clock,  an' 
the  folks  commenced  to  look  round  for  ol'  Proph' 
to  come  in  an'  call  out  e-vents  same  as  he  al- 
ways done. 

"  So  d'rectly  the  boys  they  stepped  out  an' 
fetched  him  in — drawin'  him  'long  by  the  sleeve, 
an'  he  holdin'  back  like  ez  ef  he  dreaded  to 
come  in. 

"  I  tell  you,  parson,  I'll  never  forgit  the  way  that 
old  nigger  looked,  longest  day  I  live.  Seemed 
like  he  couldn't  sca'cely  walk,  an'  he  stumbled, 
an'  when  he  taken  his  station  front  o'  the  mantel- 
shelf, look  like  he  never  would  open  his  mouth 
to  begin. 


20  IN    SIMPKINSVILLE 

"An'  when  at  last  he  started  to  talk,  stid  o' 
runnin'  on  an'  laughin'  an'  pleggin'  everybody 
like  he  always  done,  he  lifted  up  his  face  an' 
raised  up  his  hands,  same  ez  you'd  do  ef  you 
was  startin'  to  lead  in  public  prayer.  An'  then 
he  commenced  : 

"  Says  he — an'  when  he  started  he  spoke  so 
low  down  in  his  th'oat  you  couldn't  sca'cely  hear 
him — says  he  : 

"'Every  year,  my  friends,  I  stands  befo'  you 
an'  look  throo  de  open  gate  into  the  new  year. 
An','  says  he,  'seem  like  I  see  a  long  percession 
o'  people  pass  befo'  me — some  two-by-two,  some 
one-by-one ;  some  horseback,  some  muleback, 
some  afoot ;  some  cryin',  some  laughin' ;  some 
stumblin'  ez  they'd  walk,  an'  gittin'  up  agin, 
some  fallin'  to  rise  no  mo';  some  faces  I  know, 
some  strangers.' 

"An'  right  here,  parson,  he  left  off  for  a  min- 
ute, an'  then  when  he  commenced  again,  he 
dropped  his  voice  clair  down  into  his  th'oat,  an' 
he  squinted  his  eyes  an'  seemed  to  be  tryin'  to 
see  somethin'  way  off  like,  an'  he  says,  says  he  : 

"  'But  to-night,'  says  he,  'I  don't  know  whar 
the  trouble  is,'  says  he,  '  but,  look  hard  ez  I  can, 
I  don't  seem  to  see  clair,  'cause  the  sky  is  dark- 
ened,' says  he,  'an'  while  I  see  people  comin'  an' 
goin',  an'  I  see  the  doctor's  buggy  on  the  road, 


AIST   ARKANSAS    PROPHET  21 

an'  hear  the  church  bell,  an'  the  organ,  I  can't 
make  out  nothin'  clair,  'cause  the  sky  is  over- 
shaddered  by  a  big  dark  cloud.  An'  now/  says 
he,  ( seem  like  the  cloud  is  takin'  the  shape  of  a 
great  big  bird.  Now  I  see  him  spread  his  wings 
an'  fly  into  Simpkinsville,  an  while  he  hangs  over 
it  befo'  the  sun  seem  to  me  I  can  see  everybody 
stop  an'  gaze  up  an'  hold  their  breath  to  see 
where  he'll  light — everybody  hopin'  to  see  him 
light  in  their  tree.  An'  now — oh  !  now  I  see 
him  comin'  down,  down,  down — an'  now  he's 
done  lit,'  says  he.  I  ricollect  that  expression  o' 
his — 'he's  done  lit,'  says  he,  'in  the  limb  of  a 
tall  maginolia-tree  a  little  piece  out  o'  town.' 

"  Well,  sir,  when  he  come  to  the  bird  lightin' 
in  a  maginolia  tree,  a  little  piece  out  o'  town,  I 
tell  you,  parson,  you  could  'a'  heerd  a  pin  drop. 
You  see,  maginolias  is  purty  sca'ce  in  Simpkins- 
ville. Plenty  o'  them  growin'  round  the  edge  o' 
the  woods,  but  'ceptin'  them  thet  Sonny  Sim- 
kins  set  out  in  his  yard  years  ago,  I  don't  know 
of  any  nearer  than  Meredith's  place.  An'  right 
at  his  gate,  ef  you  ever  taken  notice,  there's  a 
maginolia-tree  purty  nigh  ez  tall  ez  a  post  oak. 

"An'  so  when  the  ol'  nigger  got  to  where  the 
fine  bird  lit  in  the  maginolia-tree,  all  them  thet 
had  the  best  manners,  they  set  still,  but  sech  ez 
didn't  keer — an'  I  was  one  of  that  las'  sort — why, 


22  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

we  jest  glanced  at  the  city  feller  di-rec'  to  see 
how  he  was  takin'  it. 

"  But,  sir,  it  didn't  ruffle  one  of  his  feathers, 
not  a  one. 

"  An'  then  the  nigger  he  went  on  :  Says  he, 
squintin'  his  eyes  ag'in,  an'  seemin'  to  strain  his 
sight,  says  he  : 

"  '  Now  he's  lit,'  says  he — I  wish  I  could  give 
it  to  you  in  his  language,  but  I  never  could  talk 
nigger  talk — ' now  he's  lit,'  says  he,  'an'  I  got  a 
good  chance  to  study  him,'  says  he.  'I  see  he 
ain't  the  same  bird  he  looked  to  be,  befo'  he  lit. 

"'His  wing  feathers  is  mighty  fine,  an'  they 
rise  in  mighty  biggoty  plumes,  but  they  can't  hide 
his  claws,'  says  he,  '  an'  when  I  look  close-ter,' 
says  he,  ' I  see  he's  got  owl  eyes  an'  a  sharp  beak, 
but  seem  like  nobody  can't  see  'em.  They  all  so 
dazzled  with  his  wing-feathers  they  can't  see  his 
claws. 

"  'An'  now  whiles  I'm  a-lookin'  I  see  him  rise 
up  an'  fly  three  times  round  the  tree,  an'  now 
I  see  him  swoop  down  right  befo'  the  people's 
eyes,  an'  befo'  they  know  it  he's  riz  up  in  the 
air  ag'in,  an'  spread  his  wings,  an'  the  sky  seems 
so  darkened  thet  I  can't  see  nothin'  clair  only 
a  long  stream  o'  yaller  hair  floatin'  behind  him. 

" '  Now  I  see  everybody's  heads  drop,  an'  I 
hear  'em  cryin';  but,'  says  he,  'they  ain't  cryin' 


AN   ARKANSAS    PROPHET  23 

about  the  thief  bird,  but  they  cryin'  about  the 
yaller  hair — the  yaller  hair — the  yaller  hair.'" 

McMouigle  choked  a  little  in  his  recital,  and 
then  he  added  :  "  Ain't  that  about  yore  riccol- 
lection  o'  how  he  expressed  it  ?" 

1 '  Yas,"  said  old  man  Taylor,  "  he  said  it  three 
times — I  riccollect  that  ez  long  ez  I  live ;  an'  the 
third  time  he  said  'the  yaller  hair'  he  let  his 
arms  drop  down  at  his  side,  an'  he  sort  o'  stag- 
gered back'ards,  an'  turned  round  to  Johnnie 
Burk  an'  says  he  :  '  Help  me  out,  please,  sir,  I 
feels  dizzy.'  Do  you  riccollect  how  he  said  that, 
Dan'l  ? 

"But  you're  tellin'  the  story.  Don't  lemme 
interrupt  you." 

"  No  interruption,  Pete.  You  go  on  an'  tell 
it  the  way  you  call  it  up.  I  see  my  pipe  has 
done  gone  out  while  I've  been  talkin'.  Tell  the 
truth,  I'm  most  sorry  thet  you  all  started  me  on 
this  story  to-night.  It  gives  me  a  spell  o'  the 
blues — talkin'  it  over. 

"Pass  me  them  tongs  back  here,  doctor,  an' 
lemme  git  another  coal  for  my  pipe.  An'  while 
I've  got  'em  I'll  shake  up  this  fire  a  little.  This 
stove's  ez  dull-eyed  and  pouty  ez  any  other  wom- 
an ef  she's  neglected. 

"  Hungry,  too,  ain't  you,  old  lady  ?  Don't 
like  wet  wood,  neither.     Sets  her  teeth  on  edge. 


24  IN    SIMPKIXSVILLE 

Jest  listen  at  her  quar'l  while  I  lay  it  in  her 
mouth. 

"  Go  on,  now,  Pete,  an'  tell  the  parson  the 
rest  o'  the  story.  'Tain't  no  more'n  right  thet  a 
shepherd  should  know  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  hi.s 
flock  ef  he's  goin'  to  take  care  o'  their  needs." 

"You  better  finish  it,  Dan'l,"  said  Taylor. 
"You've  brought  it  all  back  a  heap  better  'n  I 
could  'a'  done  it." 

"Tell  the  truth,  boys,  I've  got  it  down  to 
where  I  hate  to  go  on,"  replied  McMonigle,  with 
feeling.  "I've  talked  about  the  child  now  till 
I  can  seem  to  see  her  little  slim  figur'  comin' 
down  the  plank -walk  the  way  I've  seen  her  a 
thousand  times,  when  all  the  fellers  settin'  out 
in  front  o'  the  sto'es  would  slip  in  an'  get  their 
coats  on,  an'  come  back — I've  done  it  myself,  an' 
me  a  grandfather. 

"  Go  on,  Pete,  an'  finish  it  up.  I've  got  the 
taste  o'  tobacco  smoke  now,  an'  my  pipe  is  like 
the  stove.     Ef  I  neglect  her  she  pouts. 

"  I  left  off  where  oV  Proph'  finished  prophesy- 
in'  at  the  old-year  party  at  my  house  three  year 
ago.  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  parson,  thet  Mis'  Mer- 
edith, she  never  come  to  the  party — an'  Mere- 
dith hisself  he  only  come  and  stayed  a  few  min- 
utes, an'  went  home  'count  o'  the  ol'  lady  bein'  by 
herself — so  they  wasn't  neither  one  there  when 


AN   ARKANSAS    PROPHET  25 

the  nigger  spoke.  An'  ef  they've  ever  been 
told  Avhat  he  said  I  don't  know — though  we've 
got  a  half  dozen  smarties  in  town  thet  would  'a' 
busted  long  ago  ef  they  hadn't  'a'  told  it  I  don't 
doubt. 

"Go  on,  now,  Pete,  an'  finish.  After  Proph' 
had  got  done  talkin'  of  eo'se  hand-shakin'  com- 
menced, an'  everybody  was  supposed  to  shake 
hands  with  everybody  else.  I  reckon  parson 
there  knows  about  that — but  you  might  tell  it 
anyhow." 

"  Of  co'se,  parson  he  knows  about  the  hand- 
shakin',"  Taylor  took  up  the  story  now,  "be- 
cause you  was  here  last  year,  parson.  You  know 
thet  it's  the  custom  in  Simpkinsville,  at  the  old- 
year  party,  for  everybody  to  shake  hands  at 
twelve  o'clock  at  the  comin'  in  of  the  new  year. 
It's  been  our  custom  time  out  o'  mind.  Folks 
thet  '11  have  some  fallin'  out,  an'  maybe  not  be 
speakin',  '11  come  forward  an'  shake  hands  an' 
make  up — start  the  new  year  with  a  clean  slate. 

"  Why,  ef  'twasn't  for  that,  I  don'  know  what 
we'd  do.  Some  of  our  folks  is  so  techy  an'  high 
strung — an'  so  many  of  'em  kin,  which  makes  it 
that  much  worse — thet  ef  'twasn't  for  the  new- 
year  hand-shakin',  why,  in  a  few  years  we'd  be  ez 
bad  ez  a  deef  and  dumb  asylum. 

"  But  to  tell  the  story.      I  declare,  Dan'l,  I 


26  IN"   SIMPKIKSVILLE 

ain't  no  hand  to  tell  a  tiling  so  ez  to  bring  it 
befo'  yo'  eyes  like  you  can.  I'm  feerd  you'll 
have  to  carry  it  on." 

And  so  old  man  McMonigle,  after  affection- 
ately drawing  a  few  puffs  from  his  pipe,  laid  it 
on  the  fender  before  him,  and  reluctantly  took 
up  the  tale. 

"Well,"  he  began,  "I  reckon  thet  rightly 
speakin'  this  is  about  the  end  of  the  first  chapter. 

"  The  hand-shakin'  passed  off  friendly  enough, 
everybody  j'inin'  in,  though  there  was  Avomen 
thet  'lowed  thet  they  had  the  cold  shivers  when 
they  shuck  the  city  feller's  hand,  half  expectin' 
to  tackle  a  bird-claw.  An'  I  know  thet  wife  an' 
me — although,  understand,  parson,  we  none  o'  us 
suspicioned  no  harm  —  we  was  glad  when  the 
party  broke  up  an'  everybody  was  gone — the  nig- 
ger's words  seemed  to  ring  in  our  ears  so. 

"  Well,  sir,  the  second  chapter  o'  the  story  I 
reckon  it  could  be  told  in  half  a  dozen  words, 
though  I  s'pose  it  holds  misery  enough  to  make 
a  book. 

"  I  never  would  read  a  book  thet  didn't  end 
right ;  in  fact,  I  don't  think  the  law  ought  to 
allow  sech  to  be  printed.  We  get  enough  wrong 
endin's  in  life,  an'  the  only  good  book-makin'  is, 
in  my  opinion,  to  ketch  up  all  sech  stories  an' 
work  'em  over. 


AN   ARKANSAS   PROPHET  27 

"  Ef  I  could  set  down  an'  tell  May  Day  Mere- 
dith's story  to  some  book-writer  thet  'd  take  it  up 
where  I  leave  off,  an'  bring  her  back  to  us — she 
could  even  be  raised  from  the  dead  in  a  look  ef 
need  be — my  Lord  !  how  I'd  love  to  read  it,  an' 
try  to  b'lieve  it  was  true  !  I'd  like  him  to  work 
the  ol'  nigger  in  at  the  end,  too,  ef  he  didn't 
think  hisself  above  it.  A  ol',  harmless,  half- 
crazy  nigger,  thet's  been  movin'  round  amongst 
us  all  for  years,  is  ez  much  missed  ez  anybody 
else  when  he  drops  out,  nobody  knows  how.  I 
miss  Proph'  jest  the  same  ez  I  miss  that  ol' 
struck  -  by  -  lightnin'  sycamo'  -  tree  thet  Jedge 
Towns  has  had  cut  out  of  the  co't-house  yard. 
My  mother  had  my  gran'pa's  picture  framed  out 
o'  sycamo'  balls,  gethered  out  of  that  tree  forty 
year  ago. 

"  But  you  see  I'm  makin'  every  excuse  to  keep 
from  goin'  on  with  the  story,  an'  ef  it's  got  to  be 
told,  well — 

"  AVhether  somebody  told  the  Meredith's  about 
the  nigger's  prophecy,  an'  they  got  excited  over 
it,  an'  forbid  the  city  feller  the  house,  I  don't 
know,  but  he  never  was  seen  goin'  there  after 
that  night,  though  he  stayed  in  town  right  along 
for  two  weeks,  at  the  end  of  which  time  he  dis- 
appeared from  the  face  o'  the  earth — an'  she  along 
with  him. 


28  IN   SIMPKIJSTSVILLE 

"  An'  that's  all  the  story,  parson.  That's  three 
year  ago  lackin'  two  weeks,  an'  nobody  'ain't  seen 
or  heard  o'  May  Day  Meredith  from  that  day  to 
this. 

"  Of  co'se  girls  have  run  away  with  men,  an'  it 
turned  out  all  right  —  but  they  wasn't  married 
men.  Nobody  s'picioned  he  was  married  tell  it 
was  all  over  an'  Harry  Conway  he  heard  it  in 
St.  Louis,  an'  it's  been  found  to  be  true.  An' 
there's  a  man  living  in  Texarkana  thet  testified 
thet  he  was  called  in  to  witness  what  he  b'lieved 
to  be  a  genuine  weddin',  where  the  preacher 
claimed  to  come  from  Little  Rock,  an'  he  mar- 
ried May  Day  to  that  man,  stand  in'  in  the  blue 
cashmere  dress  she  run  away  in.  She  was  mar- 
ried by  the  'Piscopal  prayer-book,  too,  which  is 
the  only  thing  I  felt  real  hard  against  May  Day 
for  consentin'  to — she  being  well  raised,  a  hard- 
shell Baptist. 

"  But  o'  co'se  the  man  thet  could  git  a  girl  to 
run  away  with  him  could  easy  get  her  to  change 
her  religion." 

"  Hold  up  there,  Dan'l !"  interrupted  old  man 
Taylor.  "  Hold  on,  there  !  Not  always  !  It's  a 
good  many  years  sence  my  ol'  woman  run  away  to 
marry  me,  but  she  was  a  Methodist,  an'  Meth- 
odist she's  turned  me,  though  I've  been  dipped, 
thank  God  !" 


AN   ARKANSAS    PROPHET  29 

"Well,  of  co'se,  there's  exceptions.  An'  I 
didn't  compare  you  to  the  man  I'm  a-talkin' 
about,  nohow.  Besides,  Methodist  an'  'Piscopal 
are  two  different  things,"  returned  McMonigle. 

"But,  tellin'  my  story — or  at  least  sence  I've 
done  told  the  story,  I'll  tell  parson  all  I  know 
about  the  old  nigger,  Proph',  which  is  mighty 
little. 

"  It  was  jest  three  days  after  May  Meredith  run 
away  thet  I  was  ridin'  through  the  woods  twixt 
here  an'  Clay  Bank,  an'  who  did  I  run  against 
but  old  Proph' — walkin'  along  in  the  brush  talk- 
in'  to  hisself  ez  usual. 

"Well,  sir,  I  stopped  my  horse,  an'  called  him 
up  an'  talked  to  him,  an'  tried  to  draw  him  out 
— ast  him  how  come  he  to  prophesy  the  way  he 
done,  an'  how  he  knowed  what  Avas  comin',  but, 
sir,  I  couldn't  get  no  satisfaction  out  of  him — 
not  a  bit.  He  'lowed  thet  he  only  spoke  ez  it 
was  given  him  to  speak,  an'  the  only  thing  he 
seemed  interested  in  was  the  stranger's  name,  an' 
he  ast  me  to  say  it  for  him  over  and  over — he  re- 
peatin'  it  after  me.  An'  then  he  ast  me  to  write 
it  for  him,  an'  he  put  the  paper  I  wrote  it  on  in 
his  hat.  He  didn't  know  B  from  a  bull's  foot, 
but  I  s'pose  he  thought  maybe  if  he  put  it  in  his 
hat  it  might  strike  in." 

'•'Like  ez  not  he  'lowed  he  could  git  some- 


30  IN"   SIMPKINSVILLE 

body  to  read  it  out  to  him,"  suggested  the 
doctor. 

"Like  ez  not.  Well,  sir,  after  I  had  give  him 
the  paper  he  commenced  to  talk  about  huntin' — 
had  a  bunch  o'  birds  in  his  hands  then,  an'  give 
'cm  to  me,  'lowin'  all  the  time  he  hadn't  had 
much  luck  latety,  'count  o'  his  pistol  bein'  sort 
o'  out  o'  order.  'Lowed  thet  he  took  sech  a  no- 
tion to  hunt  with  his  pistol  thet  'twasn't  no  fun 
shootin'  at  long  range,  but  somehow  he  couldn't 
depend  on  his  pistol  shootin'  straight. 

"  Took  it  out  o'  his  pocket  while  he  was  stand- 
in'  there,  an'  commenced  showin'  it  to  me.  An', 
sir,  would  you  believe  it,  while  we  was  talkin' 
he  give  a  quick  turn,  fired  all  on  a  sudden  up 
into  a  tree,  an'  befo'  I  could  git  my  breath, 
down  dropped  a  squir'l  right  at  his  feet.  Never 
see  sech  shootin'  in  my  life.  An'  he  wasn't  no 
mo'  excited  over  it  than  nothin'.  Jest  picked 
up  the  squir'l  ez  unconcerned  ez  you  please,  an', 
sez  he,  '  Yas,  she  done  it  that  time — but  she  don't 
always  do  it.     Can't  depend  on  her.' 

<(  Then,  somehow,  he  brought  it  round  to  ask 
me  ef  I  wouldn't  loand  him  my  revolver — jest 
to  try  it  an'  see  if  he  wouldn't  have  better  luck. 
'Lowed  that  he'd  fetch  it  back  quick  ez  he  got 
done  with  it. 

"  Well,  sir,  o'  co'se  I  loaned  it  to  the  oP  nigger 


AN   ARKANSAS    PROPHET  31 

— an'  took  his  pistol — then  an'  there.  I  give  it 
to  him  loaded,  all  six  barrels,  an',  sir,  would  you 
believe  it,  no  livin'  soul  has  ever  laid  eyes  on  ol' 
Prophet  from  that  day  to  this. 

"  I'm  mighty  feered  he's  wandered  way  off 
som'ers  an'  shot  hisself  accidental' — an'  never 
was  found.  Them  revolvers  is  mighty  resky 
weepons  ef  a  person  ain't  got  experience  with 
'em. 

"  So  that's  all  the  story,  parson.  Three  days 
after  May  Day  went  he  disappeared,  an'  of  co'se 
he  a -livin'  along  at  Meredith's  all  these  years, 
an'  being  so  'tached  to  May  Day,  and  prophesy- 
ing about  her  like  he  done,  you  can  see  how  one 
name  brings  up  another.  So  when  I  think  about 
her  I  seem  to  see  him." 

"  Didn't  Harry  Conway  say  he  see  the  ol'  man 
in  St.  Louis  once-t,  an'  thet  he  let  on  he  didn't 
know  him — wouldn't  answer  when  he  called  him 
Proph'  ?"  said  old  man  Conway. 

"One  o'  Harry's  cock -an'- bull  stories,"  an- 
swered McMonigle.  "He  might  o'  saw  some  ol' 
nigger  o'  Proph's  build,  but  how  would  he  git 
to  St.  Louis  ?  Anybody's  common -sense  would 
tell  him  better  'n  that.  No,  he's  dead — no  doubt 
about  it." 

"1  suppose  no  one  has  ever  looked  for  the  old 
man  ?"  the  parson  asked. 


32  IX   SIMPKINSVILLE 

"  Oh  yas,  he's  been  searched  for.  We've  got 
up  two  parties  an'  rode  out  clair  into  the  swamp 
lands  twice-t — bnt  there  wasn't  no  sign  of  him. 

"But  May  Day — nobody  has  ever  went  after 
her,  of  co'se.  She  left  purty  well  escorted,  an' 
ef  her  own  folks  never  f ollered  her,  'twasn't  no- 
body else's  business.  Her  mother  'ain't  never 
mentioned  her  name  sence  she  left — to  nobody." 

"  Yas,"  interrupted  the  doctor,  "an'  some  has 
accused  her  o'  hard-heartedness  ;  but  when  I  see 
a  woman's  head  turn  from  black  to  white  in  three 
months'  time,  like  hers  done,  I  don't  say  her 
heart's  hard,  I  say  it's  broke. 

"They  keep  a-sendin'  for  me  to  come  to  see 
her,  but  I  can't  do  her  no  good.  She's  failed 
tur'ble  last  six  months. 

"  Ef  somethin'  could  jest  come  upon  her  sud- 
den, to  rouse  her  up — ef  the  house  would  burn 
down,  an'  she  have  to  go  out  'mongst  other  folks 
— or  ef  they  was  some  way  to  git  folks  there, 
whether  she  wanted  'em  or  not — 

"Tell  the  truth,  I've  been  a-thinkin'  about 
somethin'.  It's  been  on  my  mind  all  day.  I 
don't  know  ez  it  would  do,  but  I  been  a-thinkin' 
ef  I  could  get  Meredith's  consent  for  the  Simp- 
kinsville  folks  to  come  out  in  a  body — 

"  Ef  he'd  allow  it,  an'  the  folks  would  be  will- 
in'  to  go  out  there  to-night  for  the  old-year  party 


AN"   ARKANSAS    PROPHET  33 

— take  their  fiddle  an'  cakes  an'  things  along,  an' 
surprise  her  —  she'd  be  obliged  to  be  polite  to 
'em ;  she  couldn't  refuse  to  meet  all  her  ol' 
friends  for  the  midnight  hand-shakin',  an'  it 
might  be  the  savin'  of  her.  Three  years  has 
passed.  There's  no  reason  why  one  trouble 
should  bring  another.  We've  all  had  our  share 
o'  trials  this  year,  an'  I  reckon  every  one  o'  us 
here  has  paid  for  a  tombstone  in  three  years,  an' 
I  believe  ef  we'd  all  meet  together  an'  go  in  a 
body  out  there — 

"Ef  you  say  so,  I'll  ride  out  an'  talk  it  over 
with  Meredith.     "What's  your  opinion,  parson  ?" 

"My  folks  will  join  you  heartily,  I'm  sure," 
replied  the  parson,  warmly.  "They  did  expect 
to  have  the  crowd  over  at  Bradfield's  to-night, 
but  I  know  they'll  be  ready  to  give  in  to  the 
Meredith's." 

And  this  is  how  it  came  about  that  the  Mere- 
dith's house,  closed  for  three  years,  opened  its 
doors  again. 

If  innocent  curiosity  and  love  of  fun  had  car- 
ried many  to  the  new-year  hand-shaking  three 
years  before,  a  more  serious  interest,  not  un- 
mixed with  curiosity,  swelled  the  party  to- 
night. 

It  was  a  mile  out  of  town.     The  night  was 

3 


34  IK   SIMPKINSVILLE 

stormy,  the  roads  were  heavy,  and  most  of  the 
wagons  without  cover  ;  but  the  festive  spirit  is 
impervious  to  weather  the  world  over,  and  there 
were  umbrellas  in  Simpkinsville,  and  overcoats 
and  "tarpaulins." 

Everybody  went.  Even  certain  good  people 
Avho  had  not  previously  been  able  to  master  their 
personal  animosities  sufficiently  to  resolve  to 
present  themselves  for  the  midnight  hand-shak- 
ing, and  had  decided  to  nurse  their  grievances 
for  another  year,  now  promptly  agreed  to  bury 
their  little  hatchets  and  join  the  party. 

To  storm  a  citadel  of  sorrow,  whether  the  issue 
should  prove  a  victory  for  besiegers  or  besieged, 
was  no  slight  lure  to  a  people  whose  excitements 
were  few,  and  whose  interests  were  limited  to 
the  personal  happenings  of  their  small  com- 
munity. 

It  is  a  crime  in  the  provincial  code-social  to 
excuse  one's  self  from  a  guest.  To  deny  a  full  and 
cordial  reception  to  all  the  town  would  be  to 
ostracise  one's  self  forever,  not  only  from  its  so- 
ciety, but  from  all  its  sympathies. 

The  weak-hearted  hostess  rallied  all  her  fail- 
ing energies  for  the  emergency.  And  there  was 
no  lack  of  friendliness  in  her  pale  old  face  as  she 
greeted  her  most  unwelcome  guests  with  ex- 
tended timorous  hands. 


AN   ARKANSAS   PROPHET  35 

If  her  thin  cheeks  flushed  faintly  as  her  neigh- 
bors' happy  daughters  passed  before  her  in  game 
or  dance,  her  solicitous  observers,  not  suspecting 
the  pain  at  her  heart,  whispered  :  "  Mis'  Mere- 
dith is  chirpin'  up  a'ready.  She  looks  a  heap 
better  'n  when  Ave  come  in."  So  little  did  they 
understand. 

If  mirth  and  numbers  be  a  test,  the  old-year 
party  at  the  Merediths'  was  assuredly  a  success. 

Human  emotions  swing  as  pendulums  from 
tears  to  laughter.  Those  of  the  guests  to-night 
who  had  declared  that  they  knew  they  would 
burst  out  crying  as  soon  as  they  entered  that 
house  where  the  ones  who  laughed  the  loud- 
est. 

"Spinning  the  plate,"  "dumb-crambo,"  "pil- 
low," "how,  when  and  where,"  such  were  the  in- 
nocent games  that  composed  the  simple  diver- 
sions of  the  evening,  varied  by  music  by  the  vil- 
lage string-band  and  occasional  songs  from  the 
girls,  all  to  end  with  a  "Virginia,  break-down" 
just  before  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  handshak- 
ing should  begin. 

It  seemed  a  very  merry  party,  and  yet,  in  speak- 
ing of  it  afterwards,  there  were  many  who  de- 
clared that  it  was  the  saddest  evening  they  had 
ever  spent  in  their  lives,  some  even  affirming  that 
they  had  been  "  obliged  to  set  up  an'  giggle  the 


36  IN   SIMPKISTSYILLE 

live -long  time  to  keep  from  cryin'  every  time 
they  looked  at  Mis'  Meredith." 

Whether  this  were  true,  or  only  seemed  to  be 
true  in  the  light  of  subsequent  events,  it  would 
be  hard  to  say.  Certain  it  was,  however,  that 
the  note  that  rose  above  the  storm  and  floated 
out  into  the  night  was  one  of  joyous  mer- 
rymaking. Such  was  the  note  that  greeted 
a  certain  slowly  moving  wagon,  whose  heavily 
clogged  wheels  turned  into  the  Merediths'  gate 
near  midnight.  The  belated  guest  was  evidently 
one  entirely  familiar  with  the  premises,  for  not- 
withstanding the  darkness  of  the  night,  the  pon- 
derous wheels  turned  accurately  into  the  curve 
beyond  the  magnolia-tree,  moved  slowly  but  sure- 
ly along  the  drive  up  to  the  door,  and  stopped 
without  hesitation  exactly  opposite  the  "  landing 
at  the  front  stoop,"  wellnigh  invisible  in  the 
darkness. 

After  the  ending  of  the  final  dance,  during  the 
very  last  moments  of  the  closing  year,  there  was 
always  at  the  old-year  party  an  interval  of  silence. 

The  old  men  held  their  watches  in  their  hands, 
and  the  young  people  spoke  in  whispers. 

It  was  this  last  waiting  interval  that  in  years 
past  the  old  man  Prophet  had  filled  with  por- 
tent, even  though,  until  his  last  prophecy,  his 
words  had  been  lightly  spoken. 


AN   ARKANSAS   PROPHET  37 

As  the  crowd  sat  waiting  to-night,  watching 
the  slow  hands  of  the  old  clock,  listening  to  the 
never-hurrying  tick-tack  of  the  long  pendulum 
against  the  wall,  it  is  probable  that  memory, 
quickened  by  circumstances  and  environment, 
supplied  to  every  mind  present  a  picture  of 
the  old  man,  as  he  had  often  stood  before 
them. 

A  careful  turn  of  the  front-door  latch,  so  slight 
a  click  as  to  be  scarcely  discernible,  came  at  this 
moment  as  the  clank  of  a  sledge-hammer,  turn- 
ing all  heads  with  a  common  impulse  towards 
the  slowly  opening  door,  into  which  limped  a 
tall,  muffled  figure.  To  the  startled  eyes  of  the 
company  it  seemed  to  reach  quite  to  the  ceiling. 
Those  sitting  near  the  door  started  back  in  terror 
at  the  apparition,  and  all  were  on  their  feet  in  a 
moment. 

But  having  entered,  the  figure  halted  just 
within  the  door,  and  before  there  was  time  for 
action,  or  question  even,  a  bundle  of  old  wraps 
had  fallen  and  the  old  man  Prophet,  bearing  in 
his  arms  a  golden-haired  cherub  of  about  two 
years,  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  company. 

The  revulsion  of  feeling,  indescribable  by 
words,  was  quickly  told  in  fast -flowing  tears. 
Looking  upon  the  old  negro  and  the  child,  every- 


38  IN  SIMPKIJSTSVILLB 

one  present  read  a  new  chapter  in  the  home 
tragedy,  and  Avept  in  its  presence. 

Coming  from  the  dark  night  into  the  light, 
the  old  man  could  not  for  a  moment  discern  the 
faces  he  knew,  and  when  the  little  one,  shrinking 
from  the  glare,  hid  her  face  in  his  hair,  it  was  as 
if  time  had  turned  back,  so  perfect  a  restoration 
was  the  picture  of  a  familiar  one  of  the  old  days. 
No  word  had  yet  been  spoken,  and  the  ticking 
of  the  great  clock,  and  the  crackling  of  the  fire 
mingled  with  sobs,  were  the  only  sounds  that 
broke  the  stillness  when  the  old  man,  having 
gotten  his  bearings,  walked  directly  up  to  Mrs. 
Meredith  and  laid  the  child  in  her  arms.  Then, 
losing  no  time,  but  pointing  to  the  clock  that 
was  slowly  nearing  the  hour,  he  said,  in  a  voice 
tremulous  with  emotion :  "De  time  is  most 
here.  Is  you  all  ready  to  shek  hands  ?  Ef  you 
is — everybody — turn  round  and  come  wid  me." 

As  he  spoke  he  turned  back  to  the  still  open 
door,  and  before  those  who  followed  had  taken 
in  his  full  meaning,  he  had  drawn  into  the 
room  a  slim,  shrinking  figure,  and  little  May  Day 
Meredith,  pale,  frightened  and  weather-beaten, 
stood  before  them. 

If  it  was  her  own  father  who  was  first  to  grasp 
her  hand,  and  if  he  carried  her  in  his  arms  to 
her  mother,  it  was  that  the  rest  deferred  to  his 


AN   AKKANSAS   PEOPIIET  39 

first  claim,  and  that  their  hearty  and  affectionate 
greetings  came  later  in  their  proper  order.  As 
the  striking  of  the  great  clock  mingled  with  the 
sound  of  joy  and  of  weeping — the  congratula- 
tions and  words  of  praise  fervently  uttered — it 
made  a  scene  ever  to  be  held  dear  in  the  annals 
of  Simpkinsville.  It  was  a  scene  beyond  words 
of  description — a  family  meeting  which  even  life- 
time friends  recognized  as  too  sacred  for  their 
eyes,  and  hurried  weeping  away. 

It  was  when  the  memorable,  sad,  joyous  party 
was  over,  and  all  the  guests  were  departing,  that 
Prophet,  following  old  man  McMonigle  out, 
called  him  aside  for  a  moment.  Then  putting 
into  his  hands  a  small  object,  he  said,  in  a  tremu- 
lous voice : 

"Much  obleeged  for  de  loand  o'  de  pistol,  Marse 
Dan'l.  Hold  her  keerful,  caze  she's  loaded  des 
de  way  you  loaded  her — all  'cept  one  barrel.  I 
ain't  nuver  fired  her  but  once-t." 


WEEDS 

A    ROMANCE    OF    THE    SIMPKINSVILLE    CEMETERY 


WEEDS 


ELIJAH    TOMKINS   stood   looking  down 
upon    his    wife's    grave.      It    was    early 
morning,  and  he  thought  himself  alone 
in  the  cemetery. 

The  low  rays  of  a  rising  sun,  piercing  the  in- 
tervening foliage,  lay  in  white  spots  of  light  upon 
the  new  mound,  revealing  an  incipient  crop  of 
rival  grasses  there.  A  heavy  dew,  visible  every- 
where in  all-pervading  moisture,  hung  in  glis- 
tening gems  upon  the  blades  of  bright  green 
cocoa  spears  that  had  shot  up  between  the  drier 
clods,  and  it  lay  in  little  pools  within  the  compact 
hearts  of  the  fat  purslane  clumps  that  were  set- 
tling in  the  lower  places.  But  Elijah  saw  none 
of  these  things. 

He  had  been  standing  here  some  minutes,  his 
head  low  upon  his  bosom,  when  a  slight  sound 
startled  him.  It  was  a  faint  crackle,  as  of  a 
light  footstep  upon  the  gravel  walk. 


44  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

He  turned  suddenly  and  looked  behind  him. 
He  saw  nothing,  but  the  start  had  roused  him 
from  his  reverie,  and  he  hastily  proceeded  to 
raise  his  walking-cane,  which  he  had  held  be- 
hind him,  and  to  thrust  it  with  care  several 
inches  deep  into  the  top  of  the  grave.  Then 
withdrawing  it,  he  dropped  into  the  hole  it  had 
made  a  rose-bud,  which  he  took  from  his  pocket, 
drew  a  bit  of  earth  over  it,  and  hastened  away. 

Elijah  had  done  precisely  this  thing  every 
morning  since  his  wife's  death,,  three  weeks  ago. 

There  were  exactly  twenty-one  rose-buds  bur- 
ied in  this  identical  fashion,  one  for  each  day 
since  the  filling  of  the  new  grave,  and  most  of 
them  had  been  deposited  there  before  the  rising 
of  the  morning  sun. 

Elijah  was  a  man  to  whom  any  display  of  sen- 
timent was  childish ;  or,  what  to  one  of  his 
temper  was  perhaps  even  worse,  it  was  "  woman- 
ish." To  "fool  with  flowers"  in  a  sentimental 
way  was,  according  to  his  thinking,  as  unbecom- 
ing a  man  as  to  "spout  poetry"  or  to  "play  the 
piany." 

He  had  passed  safely  through  all  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  courtship,  marriage,  and  even  a  late 
paternity — that  crucial  test  of  mental  poise — 
without  succumbing  to  any  of  the  traditional 
follies  incident  to  these  particular  epochs.     He 


WEEDS  45 

had  borne  his  honors  simply,  as  became  a  man, 
without  parade  or  apparent  emotion.  But  with 
his  widowerhood  had  come  an  obligation  involv- 
ing tremendous  embarrassment. 

Elijah  had  loved  his  wife,  and  when  on  her 
death-bed  she  had  asked  him  to  come  every  day 
and  lay  a  rose-bud  upon  her  grave  he  had  not 
been  able  to  say  her  nay.  No  one  had  heard  the 
request.     None  knew  of  the  promise. 

On  the  day  following  the  funeral  he  had  risen 
early,  saddled  his  horse,  and  ridden  to  the  grave- 
yard, carrying  the  rose-bud  openly  in  his  hand. 
He  had  slept  heavily  that  night — the  sleep  of 
exhaustion  that  comes  as  a  boon  at  such  times — 
and  when  he  had  waked  next  morning,  confront- 
ed suddenly  by  a  sense  of  his  loss  and  of  his 
promise,  he  had  set  out  upon  his  initial  journey 
without  a  touch  of  self -consciousness.  It  was 
only  when  he  unexpectedly  came  upon  a  neigh- 
bor in  the  road  that  he  instantly  knew  that  he 
was  doing  a  sentimental  thing.  At  the  surprise 
the  flower  turned  downward,  falling  out  of  sight 
behind  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  as  if  by  its  own 
volition.  And  when  Elijah  had  passed  his  neigh- 
bor with  a  silent  greeting,  his  horse's  head  turned, 
as  if  he  too  were  denying  the  sentimental  jour- 
ney, into  a  foot-path  leading  entirely  away  from 
the  cemetery. 


46  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

When  he  had  gotten  quite  beyond  the  curve 
of  the  road,  it  was  a  simple  thing  to  turn  across 
a  bit  of  wood  and  enter  the  graveyard  by  another 
gate,  but  as  he  did  so  Elijah  knew  himself  for  a 
hopeless  coward.  The  crackling  pine-needles 
under  his  horse's  feet  sounded  as  thunder  to  his 
sensitive  ears.  Every  bur  seemed  to  turn  upon 
him  its  hundred  eyes,  in  which  he  saw  all  Simp- 
kinsville  gazing  at  him,  a  mourning  widower 
carrying  flowers.  The  twitterings  of  the  wood 
were  the  whisperings  of  the  village  gossips,  and 
some  of  the  younger  trees  even  giggled  as  he 
passed. 

To  say  that  the  widower's  grief  commands 
scant  sympathy  in  Simpkinsville  is  putting  the 
case  leniently. 

Indeed,  it  is  no  uncommon  thing  in  this  other- 
wise kindly  village  for  the  friends  who  sit  up 
with  the  body  of  a  deceased  wife  to  indulge  in 
whispered  speculations  as  to  her  probable  suc- 
cessor, and  any  undue  exhibition  of  emotion  on 
the  part  of  the  bereaved  husband  is  counted  as 
presaging  early  consolation. 

This  may  seem  harsh,  perhaps,  and  yet  it  is 
said  that  the  hypothesis  is  amply  sustained  by 
the  history  of  widowerhood  and  its  repairs  in 
these  parts. 

It  is  possible  that  such  exhibition  of  feeling  is 


WEEDS  47 

sometimes  a  simple  revolt  against  the  lonely  life 
as  insupportable. 

It  may  have  been  so,  indeed,  in  the  most  nota- 
ble case  in  the  annals  of  Simpkinsville,  when  a 
certain  inconsolable  widower  of  effusive  habit 
proceeded,  on  the  demise  of  his  wife,  whose 
name  was  Lily,  to  adopt  a  lily  as  his  trade-mark 
stencilled  upon  his  cotton  -  bales,  to  bestow  the 
name  promiscuously  upon  all  the  eligibles  born 
upon  his  plantation,  from  a  pickaninny  of  choco- 
late hue  to  a  bay  colt,  and  to  have  all  flowers  ex- 
cepting the  lilies  extracted  from  his  garden. 
Indeed,  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  change  the 
name  of  his  place  from  "Phoenix  Farm"  to 
"Lilyvale,"  and  when  at  the  end  of  a  year  of 
full  florescence  the  odor  of  the  white  flower  per- 
vaded every  nook  and  cranny  of  his  home  he 
suddenly  succumbed  to  the  blushing  wiles  of  a 

certain  "Miss  Rose  "  of  the  country-side, 

and  there  was  a  changing  of  names  and  a  plant- 
ing of  roses  with  some  confusion. 

There  were  jests  galore  about  the  rose's  thorns 
scratching  up  the  lily  bulbs  in  this  particular 
garden  of  the  winged  god,  and  the  slight  resid- 
uum of  sympathy  possible  towards  the  mourn- 
ing widower  passed  forever  out  of  the  popular 
heart  with  the  legend  of  the  lily  and  the  rose. 

Everybody  in  Simpkinsville  and  its  environ- 


48  IX   SIMPKLNTSVILLE 

merits  had  known  and  laughed  at  this  romance 
of  a  year.  Elijah  had  simply  cleared  his  throat 
and  been  disgusted  over  it,  but  it  will  be  easily 
seen  that  such  a  precedent  might  somewhat 
heighten  the  sensitiveness  of  so  timid  a  man  to 
the  perils  of  the  situation  as  he  entered  upon 
his  daily  pilgrimage. 

He  had  not  meant  to  bury  the  rose  that  first 
morning.  The  interment  was  an  after-thought ; 
but  it  was  so  simple  a  thing  to  do  that  he  had 
easily  seized  upon  it  as  a  direct  way  out  of  his 
difficulty. 

A  man  of  poetic  feeling  might  have  found 
pleasure  in  the  reflection  that  in  thus  personally 
bestowing  the  flower  he  made  it  more  exclu- 
sively hers  who  lay  beneath  it  than  if  the  knowl- 
edge of  it  were  shared  by  others.  But  Elijah 
did  not  go  so  far.  His  satisfaction  was  rather 
that  of  him  who  thinks  he  has  found  a  way  to 
eat  his  pie  and  have  it  too. 

As  we  have  seen,  he  had  been  burying  his 
daily  bud  for  three  weeks  when  this  recital  be- 
gins, and  he  believed  himself  still  unobserved. 
He  had  always  been  an  early  riser,  and  the 
cemetery  was  so  near  the  road  to  his  own  fields 
that  he  found  the  early  detour  quite  a  safe 
thing.  One  meeting  him  on  the  road  would  not 
question  his  errand. 


i 


HE    HAD   BEEN   BFRYTNG    HIS   DAILY   BUD   FOR   THREE   WEEKS 


WEEDS  49 

The  fright  he  had  felt  at  the  suspicion  of 
footsteps  in  the  graveyard  this  morning  re- 
mained with  him  as  he  turned  homeward.  Ouce 
before  he  had  been  startled  in  this  way,  and 
each  time  the  false  alarm  had  been  a  warning. 
It  had  frightened  him. 

"  Strange  how  women  takes  notions,  anyhow  V 
he  muttered,  as,  the  sense  of  panic  still  upon 
him,  he  turned  to  go.  This  was  his  first  con- 
fessed revolt.  "  Never  knowed  Jinny  to  be  so 
awful  set  on  rose-buds,  nohow,  when  she  was 
here.  Not  thet  I'd  begrudge  her  all  the  roses  in 
creation  ef  she  wanted  'em.  But  for  a  middle- 
aged  couple  like  us  to  be  made  laughin'-stalks  of 
jest  for  a  few  buds  thet  I'm  doubtful  ef  she  ever 
receives,  it  does  seem — " 

He  had  just  reached  this  point  in  his  soliloquy 
when  an  unmistakable  creaking  sound  startled 
him,  and  he  turned  suddenly  to  see  the  vanish- 
ing edge  of  a  woman's  skirt  as  it  disappeared  be- 
hind the  hedge  of  Confederate  jasmine  that  en- 
closed the  family  burial  lot  of  a  certain  John 
Christian,  a  year  ago  deceased. 

He  had  heard,  long  before  his  own  bereave- 
ment, that  Christian's  widow  spent  a  great  part 
of  her  time  at  her  husband's  grave,  but  he  had 
heard  it  at  a  time  when  such  things  held  no 
special  interest  for  him,  and  it  had  passed  out 


50  ix  simpkixsville 

of  his  mind.  But  now  the  discovery  of  her 
actual  presence  here  filled  him  with  panic.  It 
was  not  likely  that  she  had  seen  him  this  morn- 
ing. The  Christian  lot  Avas  near  the  other  gate, 
by  which  she  had  evidently  entered,  and  her  back 
had  been  in  his  direction.  But  she  would  be 
coming  again. 

Elijah  was  so  fearful  of  discovery  that  he  dared 
not  risk  another  step,  and  so  he  sat  down  upon 
a  stump  in  the  shade  of  a  weeping-willoAV  and 
waited. 

The  widow  Christian  was  short,  and  the  jas- 
mine hedge  was  tali.  The  opening  in  the  green 
enclosure,  indicated  by  an  arch  of  green,  was 
upon  its  opposite  side,  so  Elijah  had  not  seen 
her  enter  it,  but  presently  the  shaking  of  the 
upper  branches  of  the  vines  showed  that  the 
training  hand  was  within  the  square.  Once  or 
twice  a  slender  ringer  appeared  above  the  hedge 
as  it  drew  a  wiry  tendril  into  place,  and  there 
was  an  occasional  clipping  of  shears  as  the  way- 
ward vine  received  further  discipline  from  the 
pruning-blade  within. 

Long  after  there  was  any  sign  of  her  presence 
Elijah  sat  waiting  for  the  widow  to  go,  but  still 
she  stayed.  It  seemed  an  age,  and  he  grew  very 
tired,  and  under  the  pressure  of  imprisonment 
and  fatigue  he  presently  began  to  amuse  himself 


WEEDS  51 

with  idle  thoughts — thoughts  about  the  hedge 
first,  then  about  the  man  who  lay  within  its  en- 
closure, and  then,  by  natural  sequence,  about 
his  widow. 

"  Pore  Christian  V  he  began.  "  He  was 
hedged  in  purty  close-t  with  her  religion  long 
ez  he  lived — an'  I  see  she's  a-follerin'  it  up !  A 
reg'lar  Presbyterian  cut  that  hedge  has  got — 
a  body  'd  know  it  to  look  at  it.  A  shoutin' 
Methodist,  now,  might  'a'  let  it  th'ow  out  sprouts 
right  an'  left,  an'  give  God  the  glory." 

From  this,  his  first  idle  thought,  it  will  be  seen 
that  Elijah  was  a  man  of  some  imagination. 
May  it  not,  indeed,  have  been  this  very  imagi- 
nation, with  a  latent  sense  of  humor,  that  put  so 
keen  an  edge  upon  his  anguish  in  a  ridiculous 
situation  ? 

His  shrugging  shoulders  gave  silent  expression 
to  a  repressed  chuckle,  as  he  followed  his  ram- 
bling thoughts  still  further  in  this  wise  : 

"  Umh  !  Well,  I  reckon  she  knows  what  she's 
about  in  keepin'  a  close-t  watch  over  his  grave. 
She's  afeerd  some  o'  them  few  wild -oats  she 
never  give  him  a  chance  to  sow  might  sprout 
up  an'  give  him  away.     Umh  !" 

His  growing  pleasure  in  this  momentary  men- 
tal emancipation  seemed  to  shorten  the  period 
of  his  waiting. 


52  12*   SIMPKI2JTSVILLE 

"  "Well,  ef  wild-oats  is  ez  long-lived  ez  Avhat 
wheat  is,  she  can't  no  mo'n  ward  off  the  growth 
du'ing  her  lifetime — that  is,  ef  what  parson  sez 
is  true,  thet  a  grain  o'  wheat  has  laid  in  a  oF 
tombstone 'longside  one  o'  these  dumby  mummies 
a  thousand  years,  an'  then  sprouted  quick  ez  it 
was  took  out.  Hard  to  swaller,  that  story  is;  for 
a  farmer,  thet's  had  to  do  with  mildewed  seeds, 
but  I  reckon  ef  preachers  don't  know  the  ins 
an'  outs  of  mummies,  nobody  don't.  But  the 
way  I  look  at  it,  any  chemicals  thet's  strong 
enough  to  keep  a  mummy  in  countenance  that 
long  would  exercise  a  savin'  influ'nce  on  any- 
thing layin'  round  him,  maybe.  Pity  they 
couldn't  be  applied  to  a  man  in  life,  so  ez  to — 
Jack  Kobinson !  "What  in  thunder —  She's 
a-comin'  this  way  !" 

It  is  a  long  way  from  the  buried  secrets  of 
Egypt  to  the  Simpkinsville  cemetery,  and  to  be 
transported  the  entire  distance  in  a  twinkling 
by  the  apparition  of  a  dreaded  woman  bearing 
down  upon  one  is  what  might  be  called  a  jolting 
experience.  This  is  exactly  what  happened  to 
Elijah  at  this  trying  moment. 

The  widow  Christian  had  stepped  briskly  out 
of  the  enclosure,  and  was  facing  the  tree  under 
which  he  sat. 

There    be    "  weeping  -  willows "    that    truly 


WEEDS  53 

weep,  while  some,  with  all  the  outward  sem- 
blance of  sorrow,  do  seem  only  to  whine  and 
whimper,  so  sparse  and  attenuated  are  their 
dripping  fringes — fringes  capable  even  of  flip- 
pancy if  the  wind  be  of  a  flirtatious  mind. 

Of  this  latter  sort  was  the  one  beneath  which 
Elijah  had  taken  refuge  this  morning.  The 
meagre  ambush  that  had  seemed  quite  adequate 
in  the  lesser  exigency  was  as  nothing  now  as 
through  its  flimsy  screen  he  saw  disaster  surely 
approaching.  But  his  moment  of  supreme  panic 
was  mercifully  brief. 

Before  she  had  reached  his  hiding-place  the 
widow  turned  hastily  aside.  She  was  bent  upon 
a  definite  destination,  and  Elijah  had  scarcely 
had  time  to  rally  from  his  first  fright  before  he 
discovered  that  she  was  going  to  his  wife's  grave. 
He  could  not  see  her  when  she  had  reached  it, 
but  he  saw  distinctly  her  lengthened  shadow  on 
the  sward  behind  her.  When  at  last  she  stopped 
there,  he  even  saw  this  same  witness  make  a 
deliberate  tour  of  the  grave.  He  saw  it  bend 
and  rise  and  fall,  and  then,  when  it  was  gone,  he 
watched  for  the  widow  to  appear  at  the  farther 
side,  and  he  saw  her  at  last  go  out  the  grave- 
yard gate.  In  a  moment  more  he  heard  the 
roll  of  wheels,  and,  standing  up,  he  even  descried 
the  top  of  her  buggy  as  she  drove  away.     And 


54  IX   SIMPKIKSVILLE 

then,  taking  off  his  hat  and  mopping  his  fore- 
head, he  came  ont  of  hiding. 

This  visit  to  his  wife's  grave  gave  Elijah  a  most 
uncomfortable  sensation,  and  he  hurried  there 
to  see  Iioav  things  were.  He  had,  he  knew,  care- 
fully covered  his  morning  bud,  but  still  he  was 
uneasy. 

When  he  returned  to  the  grave  he  found  the 
grass  upon  it  dry.  There  seemed  to  be  other- 
wise no  change  in  its  appearance,  and  he  was 
turning  away,  somewhat  reassured,  when  a  fresh 
clod  caught  his  eye.  It  seemed  to  have  been 
overturned.  He  stooped  down,  his  heart  thump- 
ing like  a  sledge-hammer,  while  he  made  a  care- 
ful examination. 

The  clod  lay  exactly  over  the  spot  where  he 
had,  an  hour  ago,  deposited  his  rose-bud,  and 
its  damp  side  was  upward.  A  bent  hair-pin  lay 
beside  it,  and  there  was  damp  earth  upon  its 
points.  Lifting  the  lump,  he  found  its  nether 
side  still  warm  from  the  sun.  Beneath  it,  clearly 
discernible  without  further  removal,  was  the 
pink  edge  of  a  rose  leaf. 

Elijah  was  not  ordinarily  a  nervous  man,  but 
when  he  rose  from  the  grave  he  was  trembling  so 
that  he  felt  it  safe  to  repair  to  his  seat  beneath 
the  willow  until  he  should  recover  himself. 

The  next  moments  were  possibly  as  wretched 


WEEDS  55 

as  any  that  had  hitherto  come  into  his  life.  As 
he  sat  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  he  felt 
the  same  sort  of  exquisite  torture  that  he  had 
occasionally  experienced  in  a  dream,  when  for  a 
brief  moment  he  had  believed  himself  walking 
the  streets  naked,  in  a  glare  of  light,  and  had 
waked  np  with  a  start  to  a  blessed  consciousness 
of  a  friendly  darkness  and  his  night-shirt.  There 
was  no  awakening  possible  now.  A  second  trip 
to  the  grave  only  prolonged  the  horrors  of  the 
nightmare.  He  took  off  his  hat  again  and 
mopped  and  mopped  his  face  and  head  and 
neck.  Then,  in  sheer  desperation,  he  began 
walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  gravelled  paths, 
his  hands  nervously  clasped  behind  him,  and 
before  he  realized  it  he  found  himself  at  the 
opening  in  the  Christian  hedge,  and  he  walk- 
ed in. 

There  was  a  pretty  rustic  seat  just  within  the 
enclosure,  and  he  sat  down  upon  it.  Even  his 
state  of  mind,  and  the  fresh  impression  of  the 
obtrusive  widow  rudely  etched  with  the  muddy 
point  of  a  hair-pin  upon  the  sensitive  plate  of  his 
consciousness,  could  not  prevent  his  feeling  the 
sweetness  and  beauty  of  this  spot.  The  grave 
in  its  centre  was  already,  in  the  early  spring,  a 
bed  of  blooming  flowers.  Tender  sprays  of  smilax 
climbed  about  the  marble  slab  at  its  head,  while 


56  IN   SIMPKIXSYILLE 

from  the  urn  at  the  foot  of  the  mound  depended 
rich  garlands  of  moneywort  and  tradescantia, 
and  the  air  was  fragrant  with  the  perfumed  leaf 
of  pungent  herb  and  flowering  shrub. 

Along  the  lower  borders  of  the  mound,  just 
above  a  battlement  of  inverted  bottles  that  out- 
lined its  extreme  limits,  there  were  signs  of  the 
recent  passage  of  the  trowel,  and  here  closer 
scrutiny  revealed  a  single  line  of  wilting  plants, 
evidently  just  set  out. 

Elijah  looked  about  him  for  some  moments, 
and  then,  man  that  he  was,  he  began  to  cry. 
Perhaps  it  was  essential  to  his  manhood  that 
his  emotion  should  be  interpreted  as  anger.  At 
any  rate,  the  turmoil  within  him  found  expres- 
sion in  words  that,  as  nearly  as  they  could  be 
distinguished  among  sobs,  were  such  as  these  : 

"  The  idee  of  John  Christian,  thet  never  did 
a  decent  thing  in  his  life,  layin'  comf'tably 
down  in  sech  a  place  ez  this — an'  bein'  waited 
on — an'  bloomed  over !  An'  here  I,  thet  have 
tried  to  ac'  upright  all  my  life,  am  obligated  to 
be  a  laughin'-stalk  to  his  fool  widder  an'  anybody 
she's  a  mind  to  tell  !  They've  been  times  in  my 
life  when  I'd  give  every  doggone  cent  I've  made 
du'in'  my  durn  blame  life  ef  I'd  'a'  been  raised 
to  swear — I'll  be  jim-blasted  ef  I  wouldn't  !  No 
widder  of  sech  a  low-down,  beer-drinkin'  cuss  ez 


WEEDS  57 

John  Christian  need  to  think  she  can  set  ont  to 
pester  me — a-nosin'  round  my  private  business 
with  her  confounded  investigatin'  hair-pin  ! 
They  ain't  nothin'  thet  a  woman  with  a  hair- 
pin ain't  capable  of  doin' — nothin'  !" 

He  sobbed  for  some  time  without  further 
words ;  but  presently,  Avhile  he  wiped  his  eyes, 
he  said,  in  quite  another  voice  : 

"  Ef — ef  Jinny  had  jest  V  had  the  fo'thought 
to  say  bushes  iustid  o'  buds,  why — why,  they'd 
'a'  been  planted  long  ago — an'  forgot — an'  she'd 
be  havin'  her  own  roses  fresh  every  day ;  instid 
o'  which — "  And  now  he  sobbed  again.  "In- 
stid o'  which  John  Christian's  widder  has  got 
the  satisfaction  of  holdin'  me  up  on  a  hair-pin 
p'int  for  all  Simpkinsville  to  laugh  at — same  ez 
ef  I  was  some  sort  o'  guyaskutus  !" 

As  he  raised  his  face,  dashing  his  tears  away 
with  his  great  bare  hands,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
inscription  upon  the  stone  before  him.  The 
Bible  verse  quoted  there  seemed  an  assumption 
of  superior  sanctity,  and  he  resented  it  as  a  per- 
sonal taunt. 

"  Yas,"  he  retorted,  "  I  see  you're  takin'  to 
quotin'  Scripture,  John  Christian,  but  you 
needn't  to  quote  it  at  me  !  You're  set  out  first 
class,  you  are,  Bible  tex'  at  yo'  head  an'  flower- 
vase  at  yo'  feet,  but  you  ain't  the  first  low-down 


58  IN   SIMPKIJrSYILLE 

cuss  thet's  been  Bible-texted  out  of  all  recogni- 
tion." 

Was  it  the  answering  silence  of  the  grave  in 
response  to  this  volley  that  rebuked  him  ?  Per- 
haps so,  for  certainly  there  was  sudden  con- 
trition expressed  in  his  next  words,  spoken  in 
apologetic  voice : 

"  God  forgive  me  for  strikin'  a  man  when  he's 
down ;  but  he  does  seem  so  set  up — flowered  all 
over — an'  nothin'  to  do — an'  a  lovin'  Avife — " 

Just  as  Elijah  said  these  last  words  there  was 
a  stir  at  his  side,  and  he  turned  to  see  the 
widow  Christian  standing  before  him,  plants  and 
trowel  in  hand.  She  started  on  first  nerceiviui? 
him,  but  his  tearful,  dejected  state  was  an  ap- 
peal to  her  womanly  sympathies.  She  took  her 
seat  beside  him  on  the  settee. 

"  Yas,"  she  said,  mournfully,  "  everybody 
knows  she  was  a  lovin'  wife,  Mr.  Tomkins,  an'  I 
ain't  surprised  to  sec  you  all  broke  up  this  way. 
I  been  through  it  all,  an'  I  know  what  it  is."  She 
sighed  heavily.  "  They  ain't  a  grain  o'  the  bit- 
terness but  I've  tasted — not  a  one — an'  quinine 
an'  bitter  alloways  is  sugar  to  it.  But  I'm 
mighty  glad,  Mr.  Tomkins,  to  see  thet  you  feel 
neighborly  enough  to  come  into  my  lot  to  give 
way.  You'll  be  all  the  better  for  it.  It's  what 
I  do  myself.     When  I  git  nervous  in  the  house, 


WEEDS  59 

an'  seem  to  look  for  him  to  come  in,  an'  feel  sort 
o'  like  ez  ef  lie  might  be  down-town  an'  maybe 
things  goin'  wrong,  why,  I  jest  come  here,  an'  I 
see  it's  all  right,  an'  I  cry  it  out  an'  go  home. 

"  I  hate  to  see  you  come  twice-t  in  one  day, 
though,  Mr.  Tomkins,"  she  added,  after  some 
hesitation.  "  Too  much  sorrer  starts  the  heart 
a-cankerin' !  Somehow  I  had  a  notion  thet 
you'd  been  here  an'  gone  over  a  hour  ago.  I 
come  an'  set  out  this  row  o'  pansies  round  the 
edge  of  his  grave  befo'  sunup — an'  I  was  jest 
seven  short.  So  I  went  an'  fetched  these  to 
finish  the  line." 

To  attempt  to  describe  Elijah's  sensations 
during  these  first  moments  would  be  folly.  He 
simply  had  none.  It  was  a  season  of  general 
suspensions. 

In  speaking  of  it  afterwards,  he  said  :  "  While 
she  set  there  a-talkin',  seem  like  she'd  move 
away  off  into  the  distance  tell  she  wasn't  no 
bigger  'n  a  chiney  doll,  an'  every  word  she'd  say 
would  sound  clair  an'  fine  same  ez  ef  a  doll-baby 
was  to  commence  to  talk  by  machinery.  An' 
when  she'd  be  away  off  an'  dwindlin'  down  to  a 
speck,  I'd  be  gittiir  bigger  an'  bigger  tell  I'd 
seem  like  a  sort  o'  swole-up  pin-cushion  with 
needles  a-stickin'  in  me  all  over.  Then  she'd 
start  forward  an'  commence  to  git  bigger,  an' 


60  IN    SIMPKINSVILLE 

I'd  swivel  an'  swivel,  tell  time  she  come  up  to 
me,  with  a  voice  like  thunder,  I'd  be  so  puny 
seem  like  I  was  li'ble  to  go  out  any  minute." 

But  in  this  view  of  the  situation  we  have  the 
advantage  of  the  retrospect. 

The  visible  picture  at  the  time  was  of  Tomkins 
politely  facing  his  entertainer,  with  possibly  too 
much  solicitude  as  to  the  wiping  of  his  face,  but 
still  with  what  she  was  pleased  to  accept  as 
polite  attention.  She  could  have  suspected 
nothing  abnormal  in  it,  for  her  next  words  were  : 

"  But  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  bother  you  now,  Mr. 
Tomkins  ;  you  jest  take  yo'  time  to  ease  up,  an' 
I'll  plant  these  plants.  They  go  in  right  here  at 
his  feet." 

Even  as  she  spoke  she  fell  upon  her  knees  and 
set  about  her  task.  But  there  was  no  intermis- 
sion in  her  talk. 

"You  don't  know  what  a  comfort  this  grave 
is  to  me,  Mr.  Tomkins,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  as, 
taking  a  pin  from  her  back  hair,  she  began  care- 
fully drawing  out  the  damp  roots  of  the  plant 
she  held.  "Ef  a  body  studies  over  it  rightly, 
there's  a  heap  o'  communion  with  the  dead 
th'ough  grave-tendin' !  Now  these  pansies  here 
— f 'instance —  Pansies,  you  know — why,  they're 
flowers  of  remembrance,  an'  a  person  can  plant 
any  kind  they  see  fit,  accordin'  to  their  hearts' 


WEEDS  61 

desires.  There's  the  yallers  and  deep  reds — an' 
mixed.  Some  o'  the  mixed  ones  is  marked  so 
ez  to  make  reg'lar  fool  faces.  These  here  are  all 
dead  black."  She  sighed  again.  "I  did  think 
I'd  put  in  a  purple  or  two  this  season,  but  I 
'ain't  had  the  heart  to — not  yet.  He  hated  black," 
she  added  in  a  moment,  "but  of  co'se  in  this  my 
heart  has  to  have  some  consideration,  an'  I've 
done  a  good  many  things  to  pacify  him — 

"These  bottles,  f instance — "  She  sat  back 
upon  her  heels,  while  her  eye  made  the  circuit 
of  the  bottle  border.  "These  bottles,  now,"  she 
repeated,  Avith  manifest  hesitation  —  "I  'ain't 
never  mentioned  them  to  nobody  before,  Mr. 
Tomkins,  an'  I  don't  know  why  I'm  a-doin'  it 
to  you,  'less  'n  it's  seein'  you  in  the  same  state 
o'  mind  thet  I've  been  th'ough.  You'll  find,  ez 
you  go  on,  Mr.  Tomkins,  thet  unless  a  heart 
gets  expressed  one  way  or  another,  its  mighty 
ap'  to  palpitate  inwardly.  Have  you  ever  had 
yo'  heart  to  palpitate  inward,  Mr.  Tomkins  ?" 

She  had  turned,  and  was  looking  straight 
into  her  guest's  face.  He  had  had  time  to  begin 
to  recover  his  bearings  by  this  time.  The  me 
and  the  not  me  were  gradually  assuming  proper 
relations  in  his  returning  consciousness.  To 
be  exact,  he  had  just  begun  definitely  to  re- 
alize where  he   sat,  and  that  John  Christian's 


62  IN"   SIMPKINSYILLE 

widow  was  talking  to  liirn  when  she  put  her 
question. 

His  first  conscious  act  had  been  to  stop  mop- 
ping his  face  and  to  put  his  handkerchief  away. 
It  was  while  he  was  in  the  act  of  this  bestowal 
that  there  came  a  realization  of  her  expectant 
face  and  the  necessity  of  speech. 

"  Well,  reely — Mis'  Christian — ':  he  began. 

"  Of  co'se,"  she  interrupted,  "you  may've  had 
it  an'  not  known  it.  You  tell  it  by  feelin'  the 
need  of  somethin'  an'  not  knowiii'  jest  what  it 
is.  It  might  be  fresh  air  or  aromatic  sperits 
of  ammonia,  an'  then  again  it  might  be  some- 
body to  talk  to.  With  some  it's  religion.  Of 
co'se,  with  me — with  me  it's  been  this  grave. 

"  These  bottles,  now — ef  they  was  one  thing 
on  earth  thet  could  'a'  been  called  a  bone  of 
contention  in  our  lives,  Mr.  Tomkins,  it  was 
them  identical  bottles.  I  don't  reckon  I'm 
a-tellin'  you  any  secret  when  I  say  that.  Every- 
body was  obligated  to  know  pore  John's  one 
fault,  because  it  was  that  sort  of  a  fault — out- 
spoke an'  confessed.  That's  where  John  was 
unlucky.  They's  lots  o'  folks  thet  passes  for 
better  'n  what  he  passed  thet  has  inward  faults 
thet  he'd  'a'  spewed  out  o'  his  mouth.  Sech  ez 
that  I  class  ez  whited  sepulchures — nothin'  else. 
But  his  one  outward  fault — why,  someway  it 


WEEDS  63 

nagged  me  constant,  an'  I  know  I  never  showed 
proper  patience  with  it. 

"  But  now" — she  sighed  sadly — "  but  now  I've 
took  every  endurin'  bottle  I  could  lay  hands  on 
thet  he  ever  emptied,  an'  I've  brought  'em  to 
him  here.  An'  I've  laid  my  pansy  line  'longside 
of  'em.  But  I  can't  say  yet  thet  they  ain't  a  thorn 
in  the  flesh  to  me  sometimes — them  bottles. 

"  An'  I've  even  done  more  than  that,  Mr.  Tom- 
kins  ;  I've  planted  mint  here — jest  ez  a  token  of 
forgiveness — nothin'  else.  An',  tell  the  truth, 
I'm  even  gittin'  so's  I  like  the  smell  of  it.  May- 
be I'll  git  entirely  reconciled  to  the  bottles — in 
time.  I've  had  mighty  little  patience  with  spear- 
mint all  these  years,  which  I  now  reelize  was  very 
foolish,  'cause  a  green  herb  ain't  no  ways  respon- 
sible for  the  company  it's  made  to  keep,  an'  I 
don't  know  ez  they's  anything  thet  could  take 
the  mint's  place  in  a  julep  an'  do  less  harm  'n 
what  the  mint  does.  I  don't  know  but  it's  may- 
be a  savin'  grace  to  it ;  an'  then  it's  a  Bible  herb, 
you  know — mint  an'  anise  an'  cumin." 

She  had  turned  away  now,  and  was  resuming 
her  work  of  transplanting.  Her  last  words  were 
spoken  as  if  in  half-forgetfulness  of  her  guest. 
Still,  this  was  possibly  only  in  the  seeming,  for 
she  said,  in  a  moment,  "  This  is  every  bit  a  work 
of  love,  Mr.  Tomkins."    She  dropped  a  pansy 


64  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

into  place  as  she  spoke,  measuring  its  distance 
from  the  inverted  bottle  with  the  length  of  her 
hair-pin.  "  He  always  said  he  didn't  want  no 
foolishness  made  over  his  grave  —  but  I  think 
sech  modesty  ez  that  should  have  its  reward." 

She  had  presently  completed  her  planting,  and 
after  she  had  scraped  the  trowel  with  her  hair- 
pin, cleansed  the  pin's  point  in  turn  against  the 
blade,  and  then  wiped  them  upon  a  folded  leaf, 
she  mechanically  restored  the  little  implement 
to  her  hair  and  rose  from  her  knees. 

"  I'm  reel  glad  I  had  to  come  back  to  finish 
that  transplanting  ez  it's  turned  out,  Mr.  Tom- 
kins."  She  looked  straight  at  him,  with  abso- 
lute ingenuousness,  as  she  spoke.  "  I'm  glad, 
'cause  I  feel  thet  I've  been  able  to  offer  you  a 
little  consolation.  I  was  tempted  to  let  them 
plants  lay  over  tell  to-morrer,  but  I  thought  I'd 
feel  mo'  contented  all  day  ef  every  beer-bottle 
had  its  pansy.  Ef  they  was  anything  over,  I'd 
ruther  it  would  be  a  pansy,  to  make  shore  of 
lovin'  forgiveness." 

She  had  turned  again  to  the  grave  now. 

"  I  don't  often  count  my  plants  when  I  fetch 
'em  over,  an'  I  mos'  gen'ally  have  a  few  to  spare, 
an'  I  set  'em  round  on  graves  thet  don't  have 
much  care.  I  try  to  keep  the  potter's  field 
a-bloomin'  a  little  with  my  left-overs." 


WEEDS  65 

She  had  taken  her  seat  at  Tomkins's  side  again 
and  laid  the  trowel  in  her  lap.  Her  bonnet- 
strings  needed  retying,  and  there  was  a  suspicion 
of  dust  to  be  brushed  from  her  knees. 

"  I  did  carry  a  handful  of  left-over  flowers 
around  to  plant  on  pore  Crazy  Charlie's  grave 
one  day,  but  when  I  got  there  I  found  thet  the 
Lord  had  took  care  o'  the  pore  idiot's  memory 
better'n  I  could  'a'  done.  It  was  all  broke  out 
thick  ez  measles  with  dandelions,  an'  sez  I  to 
myself,  ef  they  ever  was  a  flighty  flower  on  the 
green  earth,  it's  a  dandelion.  So  I  come  away 
an'  planted  my  odds  an'  ends  promiscuous.  I've 
often  wondered  ef  dandelions  wasn't  reckoned  ez 
idiots  among  flowers." 

It  was  no  doubt  an  awful  thing  for  Elijah  to 
do,  certainly  it  was  most  inconsistent  with  his 
position  as  taken  seriously  from  any  point  of 
view,  but  at  this  juncture  he  suddenly  surren- 
dered himself  to  uncontrollable  laughter. 

After  a  first  startled  glance  his  entertainer 
smiled. 

"  Well,  I  declare  !"  She  spoke  kindly.  "  I've 
done  a  good  mornin's  work,  Mr.  Tomkins,  ef 
it's  only  to  give  you  a  good,  hearty  laugh.  You'll 
be  all  the  better  for  it." 

It  is  one  thing  to  laugh,  and  quite  another  not 
to  be  able  to  stop  laughing.     Tomkins  was  for 

5 


66  IX   SIMPKINSVILLE 

some  minutes  precisely  in  this  condition.  He 
was  so  overcome,  indeed,  that  he  finally  turned 
his  back,  and,  burying  his  face  in  his  handker- 
chief, shook  until  the  bench  rattled. 

Fortunately  his  hostess  was  a  woman  of  genial 
humor,  and,  as  she  has  amply  shown,  by  no  means 
a  person  of  sensitiveness. 

"  You'll  likely  cry  a  little  again  when  the 
laugh's  over — I  always  do — but  it's  jest  that 
much  better  for  you,"  she  said,  cheerily,  as  she 
rose  to  go.     "  And  now,  good-hye  V 

As  she  moved  away,  Tomkins  suddenly  real- 
ized something  that  sobered  him.  She  must  not 
go  until  there  should  be  some  understanding 
about  his  buried  rose-buds.  If  possible,  he  must 
have  her  promise  of  secrecy. 

There  was  a  sudden  pain  in  his  heart  and  a 
sense  of  shame  as  the  tender  subject  presented 
itself  anew  to  his  mental  vision.  His  sorrow  was 
fresh  and  sacred.  The  woman  with  whom  he 
must  temporize  had  invaded  its  holy  domain, 
and  he  felt,  even  as  he  hastened  to  pursue  her, 
that  he  despised  her. 

She  was  a  lithe  little  woman,  of  quick  step,  and 
by  the  time  Elijah  had  disposed  of  his  trouble- 
some emotions  sufficiently  to  present  himself  he 
saw  that  she  was  nearing  the  gate,  and  he  called 
her,  faintly : 


WEEDS  67 

"  Oh,  Mis'  Christian  !" 

She  immediately  turned  and  started  back. 

"  ISTemmind  ;  don't  come  back  ;  I  jest  want  to 
talk  to  you  a  little  bit." 

He  overtook  her  now,  and  together  they  pro- 
ceeded to  the  gate. 

"  Mis'  Christian,  I've  jest  been  a-thinkin'," 
he  began — "  that  is,  I've  been  a-wonderin' — I 
wonder  ef  you're  the  kind  o'  person — I  know 
you're  a  mighty  nice  lady,  Mis'  Christian,  an'  a 
tender-hearted  one,  which  you've  showed  me  to- 
day, unmistakable — but  I  was  jest  a-wonderin' 
ef  you  was  the  kind  o'  person" — they  had  reached 
the  gate  now,  and  Elijah  leaned  against  the  post, 
hesitating  in  awkward  embarrassment — "ef  you 
was  the  sort  o'  person  thet,  ef  you  was  to  know 
a  little  thing  about  another  person  thet  they  was 
a-tryin'  to  keep  hid — for  reasons  of  their  own — 
would  you  jest  keep  it  to  yo'self,  please,  ma'am, 
an'  not  say  nothin'  about  it  ?  I'd  like  to  think 
you  was  that  kind  o'  person,  Mis'  Christian — I 
would  indeed." 

A  great,  pleased  light  came  into  the  widow's 
eyes.  They  saw  the  dawn  of  a  new  era  in  this 
interesting  case,  and  this  was  its  reflection.  She 
mechanically  loosened  her  bonnet  strings  as  she 
came  nearer  to  Elijah. 

"  Mr.  Tomkins,"  she   began,    seriously,    and 


68  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

with  evident  relish,  "I'm  mighty  glad  you've 
spoke.  Of  co'se  yo'  silence  wasn't  a  thing  for 
me  to  break.  A  person's  silence  is  his  own — to 
break  or  to  keep — an'  you've  broke  yores  an'  let 
me  in — an'  I  come  ez  a  friend.  But  befo'  I  go 
a  step  further,  Mr.  Tomkins" — she  came  nearer 
now  and  lowered  her  voice — "befo'  I  go  a  step 
further,  I  want  to  tell  you  roses  don't  grow  by 
plantin'  buds.  They  have  to  be  set  out  in  cut- 
tin's.  You  could  come  here  an'  plant  rose-buds 
all  yo'  mortal  life,  an'  you  wouldn't  never  have 
so  much  ez  a  sprout,  much  less  'n  a  rose-bush — 
not  ef  you  planted  tell  doomsday." 

Elijah  blushed  scarlet.  "An'  do  you  think, 
Mis'  Christian,  thet— " 

"  I  don't  think  nothin'  about  it.  I  know  it. 
But  ez  for  talJcin' !  Why,  horses  an'  mules 
couldn't  drag  a  word  out  o'  me  about  yo'  plant- 
in'  them  buds.  I  been  wantin'  to  tell  you  for 
three  weeks  thet  you  wouldn't  have  no  crop,  but, 
ez  I  said  befo',  it  wasn't  for  me  to  break  yore 
silence.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  partly  on  her 
account,  too,  'cause  ef  she's  conscious  of  it,  I 
know  it  must  pleg  her.  She  was  so  sensible 
always,  I  know  how  she'd  feel." 

Elijah  moved  uneasily,  shifting  his  Aveight 
from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

"Mis'  Christian,"  he  began,  "we're  here  in 


WEEDS  69 

the  presence  o'  the  dead,  ez  you  might  say,  an' 
I'm  a-goin'  to  talk  to  you  outspoke.  My  feelin's 
ain't  things  I  like  to  talk  about — an'  I'm  a  slow- 
spoken  man  anyway.  Either  my  luck  or  yores 
is  the  lot  of  purty  nigh  every  married  couple  in 
God's  world.  Mighty  few  is  allotted  to  die  to- 
gether. They's  bound  to  be  a  goer  an'  a  stayer, 
an'  ef  the  goers  can  stand  their  part  an'  keep 
silence,  it's  always  seemed  to  me  the  stayers 
might  do  ez  much — jest  hold  still — that's  all. 
I  thought  I  was  man  enough  to  do  it — an'  /  am 
ef — "  He  wanted  to  say  "  ef  I  could  be  let 
alone,"  but  he  dared  not.  He  left  the  sentence 
broken.  "  But  ef  they's  one  thing  on  the  round 
world  thet  I  can't  stand,  it's  bein'  made  a  fool 
of — or  laughed  at.  An'  that's  why  I  planted 
them  buds." 

The  widow  looked  at  him  askance,  as  if  half 
suspicious  of  his  sanity.     But  he  went  on  : 

"She  ast  me,  Mis'  Christian — one  o'  the  last 
words  she  spoke — an'  I  promised  her — to  put  a 
rose-bud  on  her  grave  every  day — an'  I've  done  it. 
But  I  knowed  thet  ef  I  was  Tcetched  a-doin'  sech 
a  softy  thing,  they  wouldn't  be  no  peace  in 
Simpkinsville  for  me — so  I've  jest  buried  it.  An' 
continue  to  do  so  I  must. 

"Now  I've  done  out  with  the  whole  thing.  It 
seemed  like  a  little  thing  to  ask.    Buds  is  plenti- 


70  IN    SIMPKINSVILLE 

f  ul,  an'  the  cemetery  is  close-t  enough,  an'  I'd  do 
a'most  anything  to  please  her.  An'  yet —  Well, 
it's  jest  one  o'  them  little  things  sech  ez  a  woman 
'11  ask  a  man  to  do  in  a  minute,  an'  he'll  never 
git  done  doin'.  Th'  ain't  notJiin'  I  wouldn't  do 
for  her,  an'  do  gladly,  thet  I  could  keep  to  myself. 
Ef  she'd  'a'  ast  me  to  eat  a  whole  rose-bush  every 
day,  I'd  eat  it  gladly,  thorns  an'  all.  They'd  be 
a-plenty  o'  ways  of  eatin'  it  in  secret,  an'  I 
wouldn't  mind  a  inward  thorn.  But  this  here 
trip  I'm  obligated  to  take — tell  the  truth,  it  plegs 
me.  An'  now,  I  don't  doubt  thet  to  a  woman 
with  sech  a  bloomin'  grave  ez  you  keep  I  must 
seem  like  a  mighty  begrudgin'  sort  of  a  man, 
Mis'  Christian." 

"Not  at  all,  Mr.  Tomkins — not  at  all.  You're 
jest  precizely,  for  all  the  world,  similar-disposi- 
tioned  to  John  Christian.  Ef  I  had  'a'  died  first, 
although  he'd  'a'  been  all  broke  up  over  it,  I 
know  I  wouldn't  have  no  mo'  flowers  on  my  grave 
than  sech  weeds  ez  the  good  Lord  sends  to  beg- 
gars' graves — not  a  one.  Pore  John  !  He  often 
said,  jest  a-jokin',  of  co'se,  thet  he'd  promise  thet 
I  should  wear  weeds,  no  matter  which  went  first. 
He  was  death  on  jokin'  that-a-way.  Little  did 
he  think  I'd  wear  both  kinds,  though,  pore  John, 
which  no  doubt  I  will.  They  won't  be  nobody  but 
God  to  flower  me  over  when  I'm  £one.     I've  often 


WEEDS  71 

thought  I'd  like  to  get  in  under  'em — when  my 
time  comes — and  enjoy  my  own  flowers  awhile. 
His  grave  is  a-plenty  wide.  But  of  co'se  they 
wouldn't  be  no  way  of  gettin'  me  in  without  up- 
settin'  things,  an'  I  reckon  it's  jest  ez  well.  Ef  I 
knew  the  flowers  was  there  I'd  have  'em  on  my 
mind  all  the  time,  an'  every  dry  spell  I'd  be  fidg- 
ety to  get  out  an'  water  'em.  In  tendin'  his  grave, 
Mr.  Tomkins,  I  take  the  same  pleasure  I  would 
'a'  took  ef  I  was  in  it  an'  he  fixin'  it  up.  Doin' 
ez  you'd  be  done  by  is  sometimes  mo'  satisfyin' 
than  bein'  did  by.  'Cause  them  thet  do  by  you 
don't  always  come  up  to  the  mark. 

"  But  don't  think  I  blame  you,  Mr.  Tomkins. 
Where  they's  one  person  foreordained  to  carry 
rose-buds  around,  there's  been  a  hundred  fore- 
ordained to  laugh  at  him. 

"But  it  looks  to  me  like  ez  if  we  ought  to  be 
able  to  devise  some  way  to  have  you  relieved. 
Of  co'se  you've  got  to  keep  on — ez  long  ez  rose- 
buds hold  out.  An'  of  co'se  they's  a  long  sum- 
mer ahead,  an'  buds  '11  be  plentiful,  but  the  last 
two  winters  have  been  so  mild  thet  they's  a 
big  freeze  prophesied  next  year.  An'  ef  buds 
give  out,  ez  they're  more'n  likely  to,  why,  it 
won't  be  yo'  fault.  An'  ef  she  sees  into  yo' 
heart  she'll  see  thet  it  warms  so  to  desher  the 
day  the  roses  freeze  thet  she  wouldn't  be  in- 


72  IN"   SIMPKIXSVILLE 

dooced  to  have  you  start  it  another  season.  An' 
don't  you  fret.  Jest  go  along  plantin'  yore  buds, 
an'  nobody  livin'  but  you  an'  me  an'  this  gate- 
post '11  ever  know  it. 

"An'  any  time  you  feel  the  need  of  givin' 
way,  jest  come  over  to  his  square  an'  make  yo'self 
at  home,  whether  I'm  there  or  not.  "We  all  have 
our  trials,  Mr.  Tomkins,  an'  when  yore  buds 
seem  mo'  than  you  can  bear,  why  jest  remember 
thet  I've  got  my  beer-bottles.     Good-bye  !" 

She  held  out  her  hand.  Tomkins  took  it 
heartily,  without  a  word,  and  then,  turning  away, 
he  proceeded  to  unfasten  her  horse,  and  to  turn 
him  Avhile  she  jumped  into  her  buggy. 

As  he  handed  her  the  reins,  lifting  his  hat  as 
he  did  so,  he  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  ap- 
proaching wheels. 

Involuntarily  at  the  sound  he  dodged  into  the 
open  gate  and  hurried  back  through  the  ceme- 
tery to  his  horse,  tied  at  the  other  gate.  And 
even  in  his  hurry  and  fright,  as  he  strode  rapid- 
ly through  the  winding  paths,  this  comforting 
thought  took  shape  and  soothed  his  troubled 
mind  : 

"  'Stonishin'  what  a  sensible  woman  Christian's 
wife  is,  after  all  !" 

She  was  to  him  quite  as  truly  the  dead  man's 
wife  as  if  her  lamented  husband  were  still  livinar. 


WEEDS  73 

Her  friendly  interest  and  sympathy  had  been 
that  of  a  kindly  sister  woman  to  an  unhappy 
brother  man.  That  was  all.  And  he  was  grate- 
ful to  her.  Indeed,  as  he  rode  homeward,  tak- 
ing a  winding  detour  that  should  bring  him  to 
his  own  gate  from  a  direction  opposite  the  ceme- 
tery, as  the  hour  was  late,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
lightened  burden. 

The  tension  of  awful  secrecy  had  been  eased 
by  the  simple  sharing  of  it  with  another — 
another  who,  notwithstanding  her  own  different 
temperament,  "  understood." 

This  was  Elijah's  mood  to-day ;  but  when  next 
morning  came  he  found  himself  definitely  an- 
noyed at  the  thought  of  the  interested  woman  in 
the  cemetery.  She  would  know  when  he  came 
in  and  went  out.  Maybe  she  would  be  watching 
while  he  buried  the  bud.  He  would  feel  like  such 
a  fool  if  he  suspected  this.  He  hoped  that,  having 
once  been  kind  and  neighborly,  she  would  hence- 
forth mind  her  own  business  and  let  him  alone. 

Fortunately  for  his  state  of  mind,  there  was 
no  reason  to  fear  that  she  was  anywhere  near  on 
this  first  day,  and  he  performed  his  mission  with- 
out any  sort  of  disturbance — excepting,  indeed, 
the  distinct  irritation  he  felt  when  he  perceived 
the  bent  hair-pin  still  lying  where  she  had  dropped 
it  the  day  before. 


74  IN    SIMPKINSVILLE 

The  color  mounted  to  his  face  when  he  saw 
this,  and  if  the  widow  had  appeared  before  him 
at  this  moment  it  would  have  been  hard  for 
him. 

She  did  not  come,  however.  Indeed,  though 
he  regularly  came  and  went — and  always  looked 
for  her — he  did  not  see  her  for  several  weeks ; 
and  when  at  last,  nearly  a  month  later,  he  did 
meet  her  coming  in  with  a  watering-pot  in»her 
hand,  she  only  smiled  in  a  simple  and  friendly 
way,  as  she  said  to  him,  quite  as  if  he  might 
have  been  any  other  man  :  "Good-morning  Mr. 
Tomkins.  Mighty  dry  spell  o'  weather,"  and 
passed  on. 

This  was  well  done ;  and  Elijah  was  pleased, 
though  he  was  destined  to  experience  a  some- 
what uncomfortable  moment,  as  he  instantly 
realized  that  he  had  met  and  spoken  to  a  lady 
bearing  a  heavy  vessel  of  water  and  had  not 
offered  to  carry  it  for  her. 

Indeed,  he  was  suddenly  so  ashamed  of  him- 
self that  he  turned  to  proffer  the  tardy  courtesy ; 
but  she  had  gone  so  far — and  his  voice  did  not 
come  at  the  critical  moment — and — well,  the  op- 
portunity passed. 

When  it  was  over,  he  felt  rather  glad  that  his 
courteous  impulse  had  failed  to  carry.  Better 
let  her  think  him  a  trifle  remiss,  or  even  impo- 


WEEDS  75 

lite,  than  for  him  to  "begin  '  totin"  water  to 
John  Christian's  grave." 

"Ef  I  was  to  be  ketched  doin'  sech  a  thing  ez 
that,"  he  even  reflected  further,  "  Fd  be  worse 
off  'n  ever." 

The  summer  was  a  long  and  lonely  one  to 
Elijah.  His  home,  left  to  the  care  of  a  single 
old  servant,  was  wellnigh  comfortless. 

Adam's  first  necessity,  preserved  through  the 
very  conditions  of  its  transmission,  has  become 
the  one  unimpaired  heritage  of  his  latest  son. 
It  is  still,  even  as  at  first,  not  good  for  man  to 
be  alone.  A  primary  need  of  his  life  is  yet  the 
sustaining  companionship  of  some  good  woman, 
be  she  wife  or  mother  or  sister  or  friend.  And 
it  is  well  for  him  if  she  be  better  than  he  ;  happy 
for  him  if  she  spice  the  sweetness  of  her  rela- 
tion with  differences  of  thought  and  opinion. 
Only  let  him  feel  that  she  understands  him,  and 
cares. 

Elijah,  in  spite  of  all  her  expressions  of  kind- 
ness to  him,  and  her  since  becoming  reticence, 
had  never  quite  forgiven  the  widow  Christian 
for  discovering  his  secret.  The  rusting  hair- 
pin, always  definitely  located  in  his  conscious- 
ness, even  when  the  summer's  full  growth  had 
covered  it  over,  was  still  an  irritation  to  him. 

And  yet,  when  the  season  of  shortening  days 


76  IN"   SIMPKHSTSVILLE 

was  at  hand,  when  September  was  waning  and 
October's  promise  was  so  very  barren,  he  one  day 
idly  wondered  if  he  should  never  meet,  if  for  but 
a  moment's  recognition — "jest  for  a  passin'  o' 
the  time  o'  day" — the  one  woman  on  earth  who 
knew  and  respected  his  secret;  the  one  who,  so 
far  as  her  slight  knowledge  went,  understood 
him. 

He  saw  her  again,  very  soon  after  this,  but 
there  was  no  greeting.  He  had  taken  a  fancy  to 
come  in  by  "her  gate,"  and  he  found  she  had 
just  preceded  him.  For  the  length  of  such  a 
distance  as  one  would  designate  as  "a  block"  in 
New  York  —  it  would  be  "a  square"  in  'New 
Orleans — he  walked  a  short  distance  behind  her. 
And  the  morning  sun  shone  full  upon  her  all  the 
way,  defining  her  trig  figure,  penetrating  the 
coil  of  her  hair.  She  did  not  look  around, 
though  she  must  have  heard  his  step. 

The  widow  Christian  was,  as  already  seen,  a 
Presbyterian,  and  as  she  walked  before  Elijah 
down  the  gravelled  path,  every  hair  of  her  head 
seemed  a  fitting  expression  of  her  faith.  Each 
strand  lay  as  if  obeying  a  divine  injunction  dat- 
ing from  the  foundations  of  the  world.  But  it 
was  clean  and  wholesome,  and  of  a  true  blue- 
black. 

It  was  frankly  Calvinistic,  eminently  sure,  by 


WEEDS  77 

every  declaration  of  its  polished  braid,  of  its  call- 
ing and  election. 

And  yet — its  conscientious  wearer  was  canon- 
izing a  drunkard,  reincarnating  the  tares  of  his 
wasted  life  as  flowers,  and  feasting  her  famished 
soul  upon  their  fragrance  and  beauty,  willingly 
self-deceived — apologizing,  as  the  good  always  do 
to  the  bad.  Base  indeed  must  be  a  life  too  poor 
to  yield  a  posthumous  flowering  of  balm  for  the 
anointing  of  loving  hearts.  The  inconsistency 
of  the  lonely  little  Presbyterian  woman's  daily 
devotions  at  a  shrine  so  meagre  and  yet  so  rich 
in  color  and  symbols  was  full  of  pathos.  She  re- 
minded one  of  a  little  Romanist  at  her prie-dieu 
burning  her  candle  for  a  departed  soul — without 
the  consolations  of  purgatory. 

Elijah  did  not  try  to  overtake  her  this  morning, 
nor,  be  it  quickly  said  to  his  credit,  did  he  think 
these  thoughts  about  her.  They  are  the  writer's 
— and  idle  enough. 

But  Elijah  was  touched  with  sympathy  for  her 
as  she  walked  alone  before  him  —  he  knew  not 
why. 

There  was  a  suspicion  of  chill  in  the  air  as  he 
sniffed  its  breath  this  morning.  The  faint,  in- 
describable atmospheric  relief  that  comes  when  a 
Southern  September  yawns  for  a  minute  is  hard 
to  describe.     It  is  only  as  if  summer  were  tired, 


78  IN"    SIMPKIXSVILLE 

perhaps.     Still,  a  yawn  always  presages  a  new 
era — a  renascence  beyond  its  culmination. 

To  Elijah  it  meant  that  the  season  of  the 
blooming  rose  was  on  the  wane.  He  lingered 
quite  a  while  at  his  poor  shrine  to-day,  waiting, 
for  no  reason  at  all.  But  when  he  was  presently 
startled  by  a  rustling  skirt,  and,  looking  up,  saw 
the  widow  depart,  he  turned  away  with  a  definite 
sense  of  disappointment. 

She  certainly  had  known  he  was  there,  and 
might  have  had  the  grace  to  look  over  and  nod, 
or  to  remark  that  it  was  a  cool  morning,  or  a 
warm  one.    Either  would  have  been  true  enough. 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  reflected,  as  a  fretful  ten- 
year-old  boy  might  have  done — "the  fact  is,  she 
don't  keer  no  mo' for  me  'n  what  she  does  for  the 
next  one.  She  was  jest  kind  to  me  because  she 
is  kind,  that's  all — an'  I  was  jest  big  enough  of  a 
fool  to  think  she  felt  reel  neighborly." 

If  there  was  reason  for  such  misgiving  to-day, 
the  morrow  brought  the  lonely  man  a  goodly 
grain  of  reassurance.     It  was  indeed  a  full  day. 

Unconsciously  piqued  by  his  last  experience, 
he  determined  that  it  should  not  be  repeated, 
and  so  he  had  risen  betimes  and  gone  earlier 
than  usual  to  the  cemetery;  and  he  was  turning 
away,  feeling  remote  enough  from  all  human  sym- 
pathy, when  he  saw  his  neighbor  enter  the  gate, 


WEEDS  79 

and  by  first  intention  start  in  his  direction.  His 
first  feeling  was  a  qualm  of  apprehension  lest  she 
had  set  out  on  a  visit  of  investigation,  and  would 
turn  hack  when  she  should  see  him. 

But  no ;  she  had  seen  him.  There  was  pleased 
recognition  of  his  presence  in  her  face  as  she  ap- 
proached him.  This  was,  by-the-way,  the  first 
time  that  he  saw  that  she  was  pretty — or  thought 
of  it,  indeed. 

"I  thought  I'd  find  yon  here  early  this  morn- 
in',  Mr.  Tomkins,  an'  so  I  hurried  up  to  ketch 
you."  Such  was  her  frank  and  friendly  greeting. 
"Mr.  Tomkins,"  she  repeated,  when  she  had 
reached  him,  "I  jest  wanted  to  tell  you  thet  Jim 
Peters  is  goin'  to  be  fetched  down  from  Sandy 
Crik  an'  buried  here  to-morrer.  The  Peters  lot 
is  right  down  there  back  o'  yours,  an'  the  men  are 
comin'  by  sunup  in  the  mornin'  to  dig  his  grave  ; 
an'  I  thought  maybe,  like  ez  not,  you'd  like 
to  know  it.  I  know  you'd  likely  ruther  not  meet 
'em  here.  Ef  you  don't  feel  like  gittin'  up  about 
three  o'clock — it's  high  moon  then — why,  you 
could  easy  slip  around  after  sundown.  They 
don't  never  be  anybody  here  late  of  evenin's  no- 
how. I  often  come  in  an'  sprinkle  his  pansies 
after  the  sun's  off  of  'em,  an'  I  never  have  met 
nobody  here  'long  about  dark." 

She  stood  facing  the  grave  on  the  side  opposite 


80  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

Elijah  as  she  spoke.  There  was  a  note  of  simple 
friendliness  in  her  voice,  and  it  touched  him 
deeply. 

"I  declare,  Mis' Christian,"  he  said,  with  emo- 
tion, "I  do  think  you're  the  best-hearted  an' 
kindest  lady  I've  ever  knew  in  all  my  life.  I  do 
indeed."  And  then,  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
grave  between  them,  he  hastened  to  add,  "Pres- 
ent company  excepted,  of  co'se." 

"  Of  co'se,"  she  repeated  in  generous  assent. 
"  An'  I  respect  you  all  the  mo'  for  that  polite  at- 
tention to  her,  Mr.  Tomkins.  They  ain't  many 
men  that  would  'a'  done  it."  And  then  she  add- 
ed: "I  see  thet  you  'ain't  never  come  over  to 
his  square  sence  that  one  time.  You  ought  to 
walk  in  some  time  when  I  ain't  there  to  bother 
you,  even  ef  you  don't  need  to  borry  the  hedge, 
jest  to  see  how  purty  it  is.  Them  pansies  have 
turned  out  lovely.  But  the  funniest  thing  hap- 
pened. Eight  in  the  row  with  the  black-faced 
ones — jest  about  where  you  set  that  mornin' — 
would  you  believe  it  thet  one  o'  them  pansies 
bloomed  out  pink  ?  Ever'  one  planted  from 
dead-black  seeds,  mind  you.  An'  do  you  know, 
maybe  I  ought  to  've  picked  it  out  quick  ez  it 
showed  color,  but  I  didn't.  I  couldn't  do  it,  Mr. 
Tomkins.  Seemed  to  me  that  pansy  stood  out 
there  jest  to  remind  me  o'  the  day  thet  I  was 


, 


"'PRESENT    COMPANY    EXCEPTED ' " 


WEEDS  81 

enabled  to  cheer  you  up  a  little,  an'  whenever 
I'd  look  into  its  sassy  little  pink  face  with  its 
quizzical  eyebrows  I'd  seem  to  see  you  a-settin' 
there  shakin'  with  laughter.  An'  it's  done  me 
good,  too.  When  the  good  Lord  sends  a  little 
thing  like  that  out  o'  His  ground,  where  He 
works  so  much  magic  for  the  comfort  of  our 
hearts,  I  believe  in  jest  takin'  it  ez  He  sends  it. 
An'  that  pansy  plant  has  kep'  a  pink  face  there 
for  me  all  summer  ;  an'  when  I'd  look  at  it  I'd 
often  remember  to  wish  a  little  wish  for  you,  Mr. 
Tomkins.  I've  often  wanted  to  ask  how  yore 
two  babies  was  comin'  on,  but  I  didn't  like  to. 
But  ef  I'd  knew  you  well  enough  when  she 
died,  I  wouldn't  no  mo'  have  advised  you  to 
let  yore  sister  take  them  children  out  o'  yore 
house  than  nothin'.  Ef  they's  ever  a  time  a 
man  needs  his  child'en  it  is  when  their  mother 
is  took  away.  Goin'  to  see  'em  once-t  a  week 
the  way  you  do  ain't  livin\  If  /  was  you,  an' 
them  my  babies,  well —  Howsoever,  excuse  me 
for  meddlin'.  Maybe  ef  I'd  ever  had  any  child'en 
o'  my  own  they  wouldn't  seem  like  gold  an' 
diamonds  to  me  the  way  they  do.  But  here  I 
keep  on  a-talkin'.  It's  a  little  fresh  this  morn- 
in',  an'  I  reckon  we'll  have  the  early  frost. 
Sech  buds  ez  you  find  now  must  be  most  too 
pretty  to  bury.     Fall  roses  always  seem  like  they 


82  IN    SIMPKIXSVILLE 

put  on  their  purtiest  so  ez  to  make  yon  hate  to 
see  'em  go.     Good-bye." 

Instead  of  answering,  Elijah  stepped  quickly 
around  the  grave  and  joined  her. 

"Don't  hurry  away,  Mis'  Christian,"  he  said, 
as  he  stepped  beside  her.  e<  I  'ain't  got  no  nice 
seat  to  offer  you,  like  you  have,  but  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  a  little.  It's  been  on  my  mind  some 
time  to  tell  you  thet  you  mustn't  think  I  'ain't 
got  no  mo'  pride  than  to  let  this  grave  o'  mine  all 
run  to  weeds  forever.  I'm  jest  a-waitin'  a  little — 
tell  it  settles  solid — an'  I'm  goin'  to  have  it  fixed 
up  decent  an'  expensive.  I  thought  about  havin' 
a  reg'lar  long  slab  laid  down  over  it,  an'  all  ce- 
mented round  the  edges.  But  I  won't  do  it  now 
tell  all  the  buds  give  out.  I've  got  so  used  to 
layin'  the  bud  under  the  sod  thet  I  wouldn't  feel 
ez  ef  she  had  it  ef  it  was  on  top  a  lot  o'  marble 
an'  stuff.  She  was  a  mighty  good  wife,  Mis' 
Christian — most  of  her  time  porcly,  ez  you  know. 
They's  many  a  little  thing  I  wisht  I'd  'a'  done 
for  her,  ez  I  look  back.  I'd  'a'  had  a  marble 
stone  there  long  ago — 'ceptin'  for  the  buds." 

"Well — I  don't  know  but  you're  wise,  Mr. 
Tomkins.  Sometimes  I  thought  of  cementin' 
Ms  in,  an'  jest  lettin'  it  rest  so.  But  I  haven't 
never  been  able  to  make  up  my  mind  what  I'd 
do  with  the  bottles — whether  I'd  leave  'em  in- 


WEEDS  83 

side  or  take  'em  out.  Sometimes/'  she  sighed, 
and  hesitated — "some  times  I  have  reel  strange 
misgivings  about  them  bottles.  Supposing  f 
instance,  thet  at  the  resurrection  he  was  to 
be  shamed  out  of  all  countenance  findin'  'em 
here — with  the  brewer's  name  blowed  in  each 
one — an'  all  the  white  ribboned  angels  a-flyin' 
round.  Of  co'se  we  can't  tell  how  things  is 
goin'  to  be — an'  they're  bound  to  be  some  way. 
I  don't  know  but  I'll  change  it  all  yet — some 
day.  But  ef  I  was  to  cement  him  in  I'd  feel 
mighty  empty-handed — an'  lost.  But  reely,  Mr. 
Tomkins,  instid  o'  you  apologizin'  to  me,  I  want 
to  tell  you  thet  I've  often  felt  reproached  seein' 
you  slip  in  an'  out  so  reg'lar  an'  so  quiet. 
You're  doin'  a  thing  she  ast  you  to  do — an'  doin' 
it  modest  and  sincere.  An'  me  —  I'm  doin' 
a  thing  he  never  would  V  liked  in  creation, 
an'  ma-kin'  a  show  of  it — though  how  it  would 
look  was  cert'nly  the  last  thing  on  earth  in  my 
mind.  Somehow  pore  John  never  stood  ez  high 
ez  I'd  liked  him  to  among  the  livin'  an'  I  have 
been  ambitious  to  have  him  stand  well  among 
the  dead.  But  you're  the  only  human  I've  ever 
spoke  to  about  it,  an'  the  good  Lord  knows 
you're  the  last  man  I'd  'a'  ever  thought  I  could 
'a'  spoke  to — seven  months  ago.  We  never  know 
what  we'll  do — tell  it's  done." 


84  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

They  were  at  the  opening  of  the  hedge  now, 
and  she  walked  in,  Tomkins  following. 

"  Ef  yon  want  to  see  yoreself  ez  others  see 
yon,  or  at  least  ez  I  saw  yon,  Mr.  Tomkins,  look 
at  this  pink  pansy." 

She  chuckled  merrily  as  she  turned  the  saucy 
face  of  the  flower  so  that  he  could  see  it.  Tom- 
kins laughed  too  as  he  looked  at  it. 

"  Nobody  knows  how  much  company  them 
pink  faces  have  been  to  me  all  summer.  Crop- 
pin'  out  there  in  the  black  row  they're  like 
jokes  at  a  funeral.  We've  all  told  'em  —  or 
listened  to  'em — an'  they's  no  place  on  earth 
thet  a  joke  gets  its  own  more'n  at  a  funeral,  to 
my  thinkin'.  Yas,  ez  I  said,  Mr.  Tomkins — 
Set  down  a  minute,  won't  you  ?  I  won't  charge 
you  any  more." 

Her  playful  mood  was  like  wine  to  poor  Elijah 
after  a  long  thirst.  She  moved  to  the  end  of  the 
bench  to  make  room  for  him,  and  he  sat  down. 

"  Yas,  ez  I  said,"  she  began,  in  quite  a  changed 
tone,  and  yet  with  a  spring  in  her  voice — "  ez  I 
said,  Mr.  Tomkins,  I'd  have  them  babies  home — 
ef  they  was  mine — sister  or  no  sister.  Why,  the 
way  you're  a-living  now,  you  ain't  no  mo'n  a 
uncle  to  'em.  An'  the  way  I  look  at  it — -of  co'se 
you  ain't  never  goin'  to  think  of  marryin'  again ; 
you  are  like  me  in  that — an'  so,  the  way  you 


WEEDS  85 

start  out  with  them  child'n  o'  yores  is  likely  to 
continue.  Ef  you  was  jest  holdin'  off  tell  sech  a 
time  ez  you  could  turn  out  among  the  girls  to 
pick  out  a  step-mother  for  'em  for  her  rosy 
cheeks,  it  would  be  different.  Yore  sister  would 
do  jest  ez  well  ez  anybody  else  to  ripen  'em  for  her. 
But  it  seems  to  me  thet  a  man  o'  yore  standin'  an' 
yore  stren'th  o'  mind  would  'a'  took  some  nice 
pious  old  lady  like  Mis'  Gibbs,  f  instance,  thet  has 
done  quilted  all  her  life  away  nearly,  an'  won't 
accept  no  home  thet  she  can't  earn.  Seems  to 
me  sech  a  lady  ez  that  would  V  kep'  yo'  family 
circle  intac' — an'  earned  a  good  home  at  the 
same  time.  An'  Mis'  Gibbs,  why,  she  thinks  the 
world  an'  all  of  you.  She  grannied  yore  mother 
when  you  was  born — maybe  you  remember — 't 
least  so  she  says.  She  says  you  was  the  reddest 
baby  she  ever  see  in  her  life,  but  I  sort  o'  doubt 
that — with  yore  brown  hair." 

She  glanced  at  Elijah's  head  as  she  spoke. 

"  Well !"  she  laughed  ;  "  don't  know  ez  I  doubt 
it,  either,  look  at  you  now." 

He  had,  indeed,  blushed  scarlet,  and  now  he 
blushed  again  because  she  had  noticed  it. 

"  I  do  declare  !"  she  laughed  again,  i(  I  reckon 
you  must  be  like  a  girl  I  went  to  school  with. 
She  always  said  she  felt  humiliated  every  time 
she  reelized  she'd  ever  been  a  baby.    But  I  glory 


86  IX   SIMPKINSVILLE 

in  it.  The  only  grudge  I've  got  against  it  is 
thet  I  can't  remember  how  folks  fed  me  an' 
dressed  me  an'  toted  me  aronnd — waited  on  me. 
I  'ain't  got  a  single  ricollection  of  sech  ez  thet 
in  all  my  life — not  a  one.  I've  done  the  f etchin' 
and  carryin'for  others  ever  sence  I  can  remember, 
an'  done  it  willin'  enough,  too.  Still,  I'm  glad 
to  know  thet  I  have  had  my  mnin's.  But  you 
think  over  what  I've  said  about  ole  Mis'  Gibbs 
now — but  don't  never  let  on  thet  I  mentioned  it. 
Some  child'en  is  afeerd  of  her  on  account  of 
her  wig — but  they'd  soon  git  used  to  it.  It  does 
shift  some  sence  she's  fell  away  so,  but  I  don't 
doubt  thet  at  the  head  o'  yore  bountiful  table 
she'd  very  soon  grow  up  to  it  again.  I  know  what 
one  broke-up  home  is,  Mr.  Tomkins,  an'  I  hate  to 
see  another.  Mine  can't  help  but  stay  broke — 
'less'n  I'd  start  adoptiii',  which  would  be  a  hard 
thing  to  do — in  Simpkinsville.  There  couldn't 
never  possibly  be  a  orphan  without  relations  here, 
where  everybody  is  kin — an'  a  orphan  with  about 
twenty-'leven  lookers-on  is  the  last  thing  on 
earth  for  anybody  to  adopt." 

This  was  the  last  meeting  Elijah  had  with  the 
widow  Christian  during  this  season.  He  stayed 
a  few  minutes  to-day,  her  willing  listener  and 
grateful  guest. 

When  he  finally  made  his  awkward  adieus  his 


WEEDS  87 

mind  was  filled  with  a  new  hope  in  her  suggest- 
ion of  reconstructing  his  broken  circle — bring- 
ing his  children  home.  Perhaps,  after  all,  all 
of  life  had  not  gone  out  of  living. 

He  wished  a  little,  as  he  pondered  over  her 
plan,  that  old  Mrs.  Gibbs^s  wig  were  a  closer  fit, 
and  that  she  were,  perhaps,  a  trifle  less  reminis- 
cent. But  these  were  externalities.  She  would 
really  care  for  him — and  his  babes.  There  would 
be  a  light  in  the  front  room  when  he  should  go 
home  at  night. 

As  he  looked  back  over  the  last  seven  months, 
Elijah  felt  as  if  he  had  always  been  a  widower 
— and  wretched.  It  must  be  wretched  to  be  a 
widower,  else  why  the  common  race  for  es- 
cape ? 

Perhaps  widowhood  is  as  miserable,  but  its 
pangs  are  different,  being  matters  of  a  wom- 
an's soul.  With  her  it  is  rarely  a  question  of 
home-breaking  or  bodily  discomfort.  She  is  her- 
self a  maker  and  disburser  of  comfort.  Where 
she  is  is  home.  And  so  her  sorrow  is — other- 
wise. 

The  more  Elijah  pondered  over  the  question 
of  reorganizing  his  home,  the  more  the  desire  to 
do  so  grew  strong  within  him. 

Still — so  irreconcilable  are  sometimes  the  fac- 
tors in  a  difficult  situation — the  more  he  thought 


88  IN    SIMPKIXSVILLE 

of  old  Mrs.  Gibbs  seated  with  wig  askew  behind 
his  coffee-urn,  the  less  the  picture  invited  his 
consent. 

But  the  new  concept  had  taken  shape — a  re- 
organized family  table  —  a  little  chair  on  one 
side — a  high  chair  on  the  other.  If  old  Mrs. 
Gibbs's  wig  bobbed  up  constantly  behind  the 
coffee-urn,  there  was  at  least  an  interrogation 
point  above  it.  And  in  the  interrogation  there 
is  hope. 

Elijah  was  very  thoughtful  these  days — very 
circumspect — very  serious. 

Many  times  he  went  to  the  cemetery,  paid  his 
tribute,  and  came  away  without  even  looking 
towards  the  Christian  lot. 

Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  old  Mrs.  Gibbs. 

However  this  may  be,  a  few  days  after  this  last 
interview,  when  he  had,  as  usual,  deposited  his 
floral  tribute,  he  leaned  over  the  grave,  and  reach- 
ing forward,  felt  carefully  about  the  roots  of  a 
certain  clump  of  grass,  as  if  searching  for  some- 
thing, and  presently  he  picked  up  an  old,  very 
rusty  hair-pin. 

He  laid  it  in  the  palm  of  his  other  hand  a  mo- 
ment and  looked  at  it.  Then,  taking  his  hand- 
kerchief, he  wiped  it  tenderly,  as  if  it  were  a 
precious  thing. 

"  I  don't  know  what  on  earth  I  been  a-thinkin' 


WEEDS  89 

about  to  let  it  all  go  to  rust  that-a-way/ '  he  said, 
aloud. 

Aud  then  he  carefully  put  it  in  his  pocket.* 

*  The  writer  wishes  to  say  that  this  is  positively  all 
that  ever  happened  between  the  widow  Christian  and 
Elijah  Tomkins,  bereaved,  in  the  Simpkinsville  cemetery, 
and  the  report  that  went  abroad  at  the  time  of  their 
marriage,  some  months  later,  to  the  effect  that  they  had 
begun  their  courting  in  the  graveyard,  is  utterly  with- 
out foundation  in  fact.  And  she  trusts  the  impartial 
reader  to  agree  that  never  were  two  mateless  mourners 
more  circumspect,  never  two  with  time  and  abundant 
opportunity  who  were  more  loyal  to  their  respective 
dead,  than  they. 


THE  UNLIVED   LIFE   OF   LITTLE 
MARY  ELLEN 


THE  UNLIVED   LIFE   OF    LITTLE 
MARY   ELLEN 


WHEN  Simpkinsville  sits  in  shirt-sleeves 
along  her  store  fronts  in  summer,  she 
does  not  wish  to  be  considered  en  de- 
shabille. Indeed,  excepting  in  extreme  cases, 
she  would — after  requiring  that  you  translate  it 
into  plain  American,  perhaps  —  deny  the  soft 
impeachment. 

Simpkinsville  knows  about  coats,  and  she 
knows  about  ladies,  and  she  knows  that  coats 
and  ladies  are  to  be  taken  together. 

But  there  are  hot  hours  during  August  when 
nothing  should  be  required  to  be  taken  with  any- 
thing— unless,  indeed,  it  be  ice — with  everything 
excepting  more  ice. 

During  the  long  afternoons  in  fly -time  no 
woman  who  has  any  discretion — or,  as  the  Simp- 
kinsville men  would  say,  any  "management" — 
would  leave  her  comfortable  home  to  go  "hang- 


94  IN   SIMPKIXSVILLE 

in'  roun'  sto'e  counters  to  be  waited  on."  And 
if  they  will  —  as  they  sometimes  do  —  why,  let 
them  take  the  consequences. 

Still,  there  are  those  who,  from  the  simple 
prestige  Avhich  youth  and  beauty  give,  are  re- 
garded in  the  ►Simpkinsville  popular  mind-mas- 
culine as  belonging  to  a  royal  family  before  whom 
all  things  must  give  way — even  shirt-sleeves. 

For  these,  and  because  any  one  of  them  may 
turn  her  horse's  head  into  the  main  road  and 
drive  up  to  any  of  the  stores  any  hot  afternoon, 
there  are  coat-pegs  within  easy  reach  upon  the 
inside  door-frames — pegs  usually  covered  with 
the  linen  dusters  and  seersucker  cutaways  of 
the  younger  men  without. 

Very  few  of  the  older  ones  disturb  themselves 
about  these  trivial  matters.  Even  the  doctors, 
of  whom  there  are  two  in  town,  both  "leading 
physicians,"  are  wont  to  receive  their  most  im- 
portant "office  patients"  in  this  comfortable 
fashion  as,  palmetto  fans  in  hand,  they  rise  from 
their  comfortable  chairs,  tilted  back  against  the 
weather-boarded  fronts  of  their  respective  drug- 
stores, and  step  forward  to  the  buggies  of  such 
ladies  as  drive  up  for  quinine  and  capsules,  or 
to  present  their  ailing  babies  for  open-air  glances 
at  their  throats  or  gums,  without  so  much  as 
displacing  their  linen  lap-robes. 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE    OF  LITTLE   MARY   ELLEN     95 

When  any  of  the  village  belles  drive  or  walk 
past,  such  of  the  commercial  drummers  as  may 
be  sitting  trigly  coated,  as  they  sometimes  do, 
among  the  shirt-sleeves,  have  a  way  of  feeling 
of  their  ties  and  bringing  the  front  legs  of  their 
chairs  to  the  floor,  while  they  sit  forward  in  sup- 
posed parlor  attitudes,  and  easily  doff  their  hats 
with  a  grace  that  the  Simpkinsville  boys  fiercely 
denounce  while  they  vainly  strive  to  imitate  it. 

A  country  boy's  hat  will  not  take  on  that  re- 
pose which  marks  the  cast  of  the  metropolitan 
hatter,  let  him  try  to  command  it  as  he  may. 

It  was  peculiarly  hot  and  sultry  to-day  in 
Simpkinsville,  and  business  was  abnormally  dull 
— even  the  apothecary  business — this  being  the 
annual  mid-season's  lull  between  spring  fevers 
and  green  chinquapins. 

Old  Dr.  Alexander,  after  nodding  for  an  hour 
over  his  fan  beneath  his  tarnished  gilt  sign  of 
the  pestle  and  mortar,  had  strolled  diagonally 
across  the  street  to  join  his  friend  and  confrere, 
Dr.  Jenkins,  in  a  friendly  chat. 

The  doctors  Avere  not  much  given  to  this  sort 
of  sociability,  but  sometimes  when  times  were 
unbearably  dull  and  healthy,  and  neither  was 
called  to  any  one  else,  they  would  visit  one  an- 
other and  talk  to  keep  awake. 

"Well,  I  should  say  so  !"    The  visitor  dropped 


96  IN    SIMPKINSVILLE 

into  the  vacant  chair  beside  his  host  as  he  spoke. 
"  I  should  say  so.  Ain't  it  hot  enough  for  you  ? 
Ef  it  ain't,  I'd  advise  you  to  renounce  yo'  relig- 
ion an'  prepare  for  a  climate  thet  '11  suit  yon." 

This  pleasantry  was  in  reply  to  the  common 
summer -day  greeting.  "Hot  enough  for  you 
to-day,  doc'  ?" 

"  Yas,"  continued  the  guest,  as  he  zigzagged 
the  back  legs  of  his  chair  forward  by  quick  jerks 
until  he  had  gained  the  desired  leaning  angle — 
"  Yas,  it's  too  hot  to  live,  an'  not  hot  enough 
to  die.  I  reckon  that's  why  we  have  so  many 
chronics  a-hangin'  on." 

"Well,  don't  let's  quarrel  with  sech  as  the 
Lord  provides,  doctor,"  replied  his  host,  with  a 
chuckle.  "  Ef  it  wasn't  for  the  chronics,  I  reck- 
on you  an'  I'd  have  to  give  up  practisin'  an'  go 
to  makin'  soap.    Ain't  that  about  the  size  of  it  ?" 

"  Yas,  chronics  an' — an'  babies.  Ef  they  didn't 
come  so  punctual,  summer  an'  winter,  I  wouldn't 
be  able  to  feed  mine  thet  're  a'ready  here.  But 
talkin'  about  the  chronics,  do  you  know,  doctor, 
thet  sometimes  when  I  don't  have  much  else  to 
think  about,  why,  I  think  about  them.  It's  a 
strange  providence  to  me  thet  keeps  people 
a-hangin'  on  year  in  an'  year  out,  neither  sick 
nor  well.  I  don't  doubt  the  Almighty's  good- 
ness, of  co'se  ;  but  we've  got  Scripture  for  callin' 
i 


TIIE    UNLIVED   LIFE    OF  LITTLE    MARY    ELLEN      97 

Him  the  Great  Physician,  an'  why,  when  He 
could  ef  He  would,  He  don't — " 

"I  wouldn't  dare  to  ask  myself  sech  questions 
as  that,  doctor,  ef  I  was  you.  I  wouldn't,  I 
know.  Besides" — and  now  he  laughed — "be- 
sides, I  jest  give  you  a  reason  for  lettin'  'em  re- 
main as  they  are — to  feed  us  poor  devils  of  doc- 
tors. An'  besides  that,  I've  often  seen  cases 
where  it  seemed  to  me  they  were  allowed  to  live 
to  sanctify  them  thet  had  to  live  with  'em.  Of 
co'se  in  this  I'm  not  speakin'  of  great  sufferers. 
An'  no  doubt  they  all  get  pretty  tired  an'  wo'e 
out  with  themselves  sometimes.  I  do  with  my- 
self, even,  an'  I'm  well.  Jest  listen  at  them  boys 
a-whistlin'  '  After  the  Ball'  to  Brother  Binney's 
horse's  trot !  They  haven't  got  no  mo'  rever- 
ence for  a  minister  o'  the  gospel  than  nothin'.  I 
s'pose  as  long  as  they  ricollect  his  preachin 
against  dancin'  they'll  make  him  ride  into  town 
to  that  sort  o' music.  They've  made  it  up  among 
'em  to  do  it.  Jest  listen — all  the  way  up  the  street 
that  same  tune.  An'  Brother  Binney  trottin'  in 
smilin'  to  it." 

While  they  were  talking  the  Rev.  Mr.  Binney 
rode  past,  and  following,  a  short  distance  behind 
him,  came  a  shabby  buggy,  in  which  a  shabby 
woman  sat  alone.  She  held  her  reins  a  trifle 
high  as  she  drove,  and  it  was  this   somewhat 


98  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

awkward  position  which  revealed  the  fact,  even 
as  she  approached  in  the  distance,  that  she  car- 
ried what  seemed  an  infant  lying  upon  her 
lap. 

"  There  comes  the  saddest  sight  in  Simpkins- 
ville,  doctor.  I  notice  them  boys  stop  their 
whistlin'  jest  as  soon  as  her  buggy  turned  into 
the  road.  I'm  glad  there's  some  things  they  re- 
spect/' said  Dr.  Alexander. 

"  Yas,  and  I  see  the  fellers  at  Rowton's  sto'e 
are  goin'  in  for  their  coats.  She's  drawin'  rein 
there  now." 

"Yas,  but  she  ain't  more'n  leavin' an  order,  I 
reckon.     She's  comin'  this  way." 

The  shabby  buggy  was  bearing  down  ujjon 
them  now,  indeed,  and  when  Dr.  Jenkins  saw  it 
he  too  rose  and  put  on  his  coat.  As  its  occupant 
drew  rein  he  stepped  out  to  her  side,  while  his 
companion,  having  raised  his  hat,  looked  the 
other  Avay. 

"Get  out  an'  come  in,  Mis'  Bradley."  Dr. 
Jenkins  had  taken  her  hand  as  he  spoke. 

"No,  thanky,  doctor.  'Taint  worth  while.  I 
jest  want  to  consult  you  about  little  Mary  Ellen. 
She  ain't  doin'  well,  some  ways." 

At  this  she  drew  back  the  green  barege  veil 
that  was  spread  over  the  bundle  upon  her  lap, 
exposing,  as   she   did   so,  the   blond   head   and 


r    . 


mBL 


GET   OUT   AN'  COME  IN,  MIS1  BRADLEY  '  " 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE    OF    LITTLE    MARY  ELLEN     99 

chubby  face  of  a  great  wax  doll,  with  eyes  closed 
as  if  in  sleep. 

The  doctor  laid  the  veil  back  in  its  place 
quickly. 

"I  wouldn't  expose  her  face  to  the  evenin' 
sun,  Mis'  Bradley,"  he  said,  gently.  "I'll  call 
out  an'  see  her  to-morrow ;  an'  ef  I  was  you  I 
think  I'd  keep  her  indoors  for  a  day  or  so." 
Then  as  he  glanced  into  the  woman's  haggard 
and  eager  face,  he  added  :  "  She's  gettin'  along 
as  well  as  might  be  expected,  Mis'  Bradley.  But 
I'll  be  out  to-morrow,  an'  fetch  you  somethin' 
thet  '11  put  a  little  color  in  yd'  face." 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me,  doctor,"  she  answered, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  as  she  tucked  the  veil  care- 
fully under  the  little  head.  "  Don't  mind  me. 
I  ain't  sick.  Ef  I  could  jest  see  her  pick  up  a 
little,  why,  I'd  feel  all  right.  When  you  come 
to-morrer,  better  fetch  somethin'  she  can  take, 
doctor.    Well,  good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  Mis'  Bradley." 

It  was  some  moments  before  either  of  the  doc- 
tors spoke  after  Dr.  Jenkins  had  returned  to  his 
place.    And  then  it  was  he  who  said  : 

"  Talkin'  about  the  ways  o'  Providence,  doctor, 
what  do  you  call  that  ?" 

"  That's  one  o'  the  mysteries  thet  it's  hard  to 
unravel,  doctor.     Ef  anything  would  make  me 


100  IN   SIMPKIXSVILLE 

doubt  the  mercy  of  God  Almighty,  it  would  be 
some  sech  thing  as  that.  And  yet  —  1  don't 
know.  Ef  there  ever  was  a  sermon  preached 
without  words,  there's  one  preached  along  the 
open  streets  of  Simpkinsville  by  that  pore  little 
half-demented  woman  when  she  drives  into  town 
nursin'  that  wax  doll.  An'  it's  preached  where 
it's  much  needed,  too  —  to  our  young  people. 
There  ain't  many  preachers  that  can  reach  'em, 
but —  Did  you  take  notice  jest  now  how,  as  soon 
as  she  turned  into  the  road,  all  that  whistlin' 
stopped  ?  They  even  neglected  to  worry  Broth- 
er Binney.  An'  she's  the  only  woman  in  town 
thet  '11  make  old  Rowton  put  on  a  coat.  He'll 
wait  on  yo'  wife  or  mine  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  an' 
it's  all  right.  But  there's  somethin'  in  that 
broken-hearted  woman  nursin'  a  wax  doll  thet 
even  a  fellow  like  llowton  '11  feel.  Didn't  you 
ever  think  thet  maybe  you  ought  to  write  her 
case  up,  doctor  ?" 

"  Yas ;  an'  I've  done  it — as  far  as  it  goes.  I've 
called  it  ( A  Psychological  Impossibility.'  An' 
then  I've  jest  told  her  story.  A  heap  of  impossi- 
ble things  have  turned  out  to  be  facts  —  facts 
that  had  to  be  argued  backward  from.  You  can 
do  over  argiments,  but  you  can't  undo  facts. 
Yas,  I've  got  her  case  all  stated  as  straight  as 
I  can  state  it,  an'  some  day  it  '11  be  read.     But 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE   OF  LITTLE    MARY    ELLEN   101 

not  while  she's  livin'.  Sir  ?  No,  not  even  with 
names  changed  an'  everything.  It  wouldn't  do. 
It  couldn't  help  bein'  traced  back  to  her.  No ; 
some  day,  when  we've  all  passed  away,  likely,  it  '11 
all  come  out  in  a  medical  journal,  signed  by  me. 
An'  I've  been  thinkin'  thet  I'd  like  to  have  you 
go  over  that  paper  with  me  some  time,  doctor,  so 
thet  you  could  testify  to  it.  An'  I  thought 
we'd  get  Brother  Binney  to  put  his  name  down 
as  the  minister  thet  had  been  engaged  to  perform 
the  marriage,  an'  knew  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  it. 
And  then  it  '11  hardly  be  believed." 

Even  as  they  spoke  they  heard  the  whistling 
start  up  again  along  the  street,  and,  looking  up, 
they  saw  the  Eev.  Mr.  Binney  approaching. 

"We've  jest  been  talkin'  about  you,  Brother 
Binney  —  even  before  the  boys  started  yon  to 
dancin'."  Dr.  Jenkins  rose  and  brought  out  a 
third  chair. 

"No,"  answered  the  dominie,  as  with  a  good- 
natured  smile  he  dismounted.  "Xo,  they  can't 
make  me  dance,  an'  I  don't  know  as  it's  a  thing 
my  mare  '11  have  to  answer  for.  She  seems  to 
take  naturally  to  the  sinful  step,  an'  so,  quick  as 
they  start  a-whistlin',  I  try  to  ride  as  upright 
an'  godly  as  I  can,  to  sort  o'  equalize  things. 
How  were  you  two  discussin'  me,  I'd  like  to 
know  ?" 


102  IN"   SIMPKINSVILLE 

He  put  the  question  playfully  as  he  took  his 
seat. 

"Well,  we  were  bavin'  a  pretty  serious  talk, 
brother,"  said  Dr.  Jenkins — "  a  pretty  serious 
talk,  doc  and  me.  "We  were  talkin'  about  pore 
Miss  Mary  Ellen.  "We  were  say  in'  thet  we  reck- 
oned ef  there  were  any  three  men  in  town  thet 
were  specially  qualified  to  testify  about  her  case, 
we  must  be  the  three — you  an'  him  an'  me.  I've 
got  it  all  written  out,  an'  I  thought  some  day  I'd 
get  you  both  to  read  it  over  an'  put  your  names 
to  it,  with  any  additions  you  might  feel  disposed 
to  make.  After  we've  all  passed  away,  there 
ought  to  be  some  authorized  account.  You 
know  about  as  much  as  we  do,  I  reckon,  Brother 
Binney." 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  I  do — in  a  way.  I  stood  an' 
watched  her  face  durin'  that  hour  an'  a  quarter 
they  stood  in  church  waitin'  for  Clarence  Bradley 
to  come.  Mary  Ellen  never  was  to  say  what 
you'd  call  a  purty  girl,  but  she  always  did  have  a 
face  thet  would  hold  you  ef  you  ever  looked  at 
it.  An'  when  she  stood  in  church  that  day,  with 
all  her  bridesmaids  strung  around  the  chancel, 
her  countenance  would  'a'  done  for  any  heavenly 
picture.  An'  as  the  time  passed,  an'  he  didn't 
show  up —  "Well,  I  don't  want  to  compare  sinful- 
ly, but  there's  a  picture  I  saw  once  of  Mary  at  the 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE    OF  LITTLE    MARY    ELLEN    103 

Cross —  Reckon  I  ought  to  take  that  back,  lest  it 
might  be  sinful ;  but  there  ain't  any  wrong  in  my 
telling  you  here  thet  as  I  stood  out  o'  sight,  waitin' 
that  day  in  church,  behind  the  pyramid  o'  flowers 
the  bridesmaids  had  banked  up  for  her,  with  my 
book  open  in  my  hand  at  the  marriage  service, 
while  we  waited  for  him  to  come,  as  she  stood 
before  the  pulpit  in  her  little  white  frock  and 
wreath,  I  could  see  her  face.  An'  there  came 
a  time,  after  it  commenced  to  get  late,  when  I 
fell  on  my  knees." 

The  good  man  stopped  speaking  for  a  minute 
to  steady  his  voice. 

"  You  see,"  he  resumed,  presently,  "  we'd  all 
heard  things.  I  knew  he'd  seemed  completely 
taken  up  with  this  strange  girl ;  an'  when  at  last 
he  came  for  me  to  marry  him  and  Mary  Ellen,  I 
never  was  so  rejoiced  in  my  life.  Thinks  I,  I've 
been  over -suspicious.  Of  co'se  I  knew  he  an' 
Mary  Ellen  had  been  sweethearts  all  their  lives. 
I  tell  you,  friends,  I've  officiated  at  funerals  in  my 
life  —  buried  little  children  an'  mothers  of  fam- 
ilies— an'  I've  had  my  heart  in  my  throat  so  thet 
I  could  hardly  do  my  duty ;  but  I  tell  you  I  never 
in  all  my  life  had  as  sad  an  experience  as  I  did  at 
little  Mary  Ellen  "Williams's  weddin' — the  terri- 
ble, terrible  weddin'  thet  never  came  off." 

"  An'  I've  had  patients,"  said  Dr.  Jenkins,  com- 


104  IN    SIMPKHSTSVILLE 

ing  into  the  pause — "  I've  had  patients,  Brother 
Binney,  thet  I've  lost  —  lost  'em  because  the 
time  had  come  for  'em  to  die — patients  thet  I've 
grieved  to  see  go  more  as  if  I  was  a  woman  than 
a  man,  let  alone  a  doctor  ;  but  I  never  in  all  my 
life  come  so  near  clair  givin'  way  an'  breakin' 
down  as  I  did  at  that  weddin'  when  you  stepped 
out  an'  called  me  out  o'  the  congregation  to  tell 
me  she  had  fainted.  God  help  us,  it  was  terri- 
ble !  I'll  never  forget  that  little  white  face  as  it 
lay  so  limpyand  still  against  the  lilies  tied  to  the 
chancel  rail,  not  ef  I  live  a  thousand  years.  Of 
co'se  we'd  all  had  our  fears,  same  as  you.  We 
knew  Clarence's  failin',  an'  we  saw  how  the  yaller- 
haired  girl  had  turned  his  head ;  but,  of  co'se, 
when  it  come  to  goin'  into  the  church,  wiry,  we 
thought  it  was  all  right.  But  even  after  the 
thing  had  happened — even  knowin'  as  much  as 
I  did — I  never  to  say  fully  took  in  the  situation 
till  the  time  come  for  her  to  get  better.  For 
two  weeks  she  lay  'twixt  life  an'  death,  an'  the 
one  hope  I  had  was  for  her  to  recognize  me.  She 
hadn't  recognized  anybody  since  she  was  brought 
out  o'  the  church.  But  when  at  last  she  looked 
at  me  one  day,  an'  says  she,  '  Doctor — what  you 
reckon  kep'  him — so  late  ?'  I  tell  you  I  can't  tell 
you  how  I  felt." 

"  What  did  you  say,  doctor  ?" 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE    OF  LITTLE    MARY    ELLEN    105 

It  was  the  minister  who  ventured  the  ques- 
tion. 

"What  can  a  man  say  when  he  'ain't  got 
nothin'  to  say?  I  jest  said,  'Better  not  talk 
any  to-day,  honey.'  An'  I  turned  away  an'  made 
pertence  o'  mixin'  powders — an'  mixed  'em,  for 
that  matter  —  give  her  sech  as  would  put  her 
into  a  little  sleep.  An'  then  I  set  hy  her  till  she 
drowsed  away.  But  when  she  come  out  o'  that 
sleep  an'  I  see  how  things  was — when  she  called 
herself  Mis'  Bradley  an'  kep'  askin'  for  him,  an' 
I  see  she  didn't  know  no  better,  an'  likely  never 
would  —  God  help  me  !  but  even  while  I  pre- 
scribed physic  for  her  to  live,  in  my  heart  I 
prayed  to  see  her  die.  She  thought  she  had 
been  married,  an'  from  that  day  to  this  she  'ain't 
never  doubted  it.  Of  co'se  she  often  wonders 
why  he  don't  come  home  ;  an'  sence  that  doll 
come,  she — " 

"Didn't  it  ever  strike  you  as  a  strange  provi- 
dence about  that  doll — thet  would  allow  sech  a 
thing,  for  instance,  doctor  ?" 

Dr.  Jenkins  did  not  answer  at  once. 

" Well/'he  said, presently, "yas — yas  an' no.  Ef 
a  person  looks  at  it  close-t  enough, it  'ain't  so  hard 
to  see  mercy  in  God's  judgments.  I  happened 
to  be  at  her  bedside  the  clay  that  doll  come  in — 
Christmas  Eve  four  years  ago.     She  was  mighty 


106  IN   SIMPKIJsSVILLE 

weak  an'  porely.  She  gen'ally  gets  down  in 
bed  'long  about  the  holidays,  sort  o'  reelizin'  the 
passin'  o'  time,  seein'  he  don't  come.  She  had 
been  so  werried  and  puny  thet  the  old  nigger 
'Polio  come  for  me  to  see  her.  An',  well,  while 
I  set  there  tryin'  to  think  up  somethin'  to  help 
her, 'Polio,  he  fetched  in  the  express  package." 

"I've  always  blamed  her  brother,  Brother 
Binney,"  Dr.  Alexander  interposed,  "  for  allow- 
in'  that  package  to  go  to  her." 

"Allowin' !  Why,  he  never  allowed  it.  You 
might  jest  as  well  say  you  blame  him  for  namin' 
his  one  little  daughter  after  her  aunt  Mary  Ellen. 
That's  how  the  mistake  was  made.  No,  for  my 
part  I  never  thought  so  much  of  Ned  Williams 
in  my  life  as  I  did  when  he  said  to  me  the  day 
that  baby  girl  was  born,  '  Ef  it's  a  girl,  doctor, 
we're  a-goin'  to  name  it  after  sis'  Mary  Ellen. 
Maybe  it  '11  be  a  comfort  to  her.'  An'  they  did. 
How  many  brothers,  do  yon  reckon,  would  name 
a  child  after  a  sister  thet  had  lost  her  mind  over 
a  man  thet  had  jilted  her  at  the  church  door, 
an'  called  herself  by  his  name  ever  sence  ?  Not 
many,  I  reckon.  No,  don't  blame  Ned — for  any- 
thing. He  hoped  she'd  love  the  little  thing,  an' 
maybe  it  would  help  her.  An'  she  did  notice  it 
consider'ble  for  a  while,  but  it  didn't  seem  to 
have  the  power  to  bring  her  mind  straight.     In 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE   OF  LITTLE   MARY   ELLEN"    107 

fact,  the  way  she'd  set  an'  look  at  it  for  hours, 
an'  then  go  home  an'  set  down  an'  seem  to  be 
thinkin',  makes  me  sometimes  suspicion  thet  that 
was  what  started  her  a-prayin'  God  to  send  her  a 
child.  She's  said  to  me  more  than  once-t  about 
that  time — she'd  say,  e  You  see,  doctor,  when 
he's  away  so  much — ef  it  was  God's  will — a  child 
would  be  a  heap  o'  company  to  me  while  he's 
away.'  This,  mind  you,  when  he  hadn't  shown 
up  at  the  weddin';  when  we  all  knew  he  ran 
away  an'  married  the  yaller-hair  that  same  night. 
Of  co'se  it  did  seem  a  strange  providence  to  be 
sent  to  a  God-fearin'  woman  as  she  always  was ; 
it  did  seem  strange  thet  she  should  be  allowed  to 
make  herself  redic'lous  carryin'  that  wax  doll 
around  the  streets ;  an'  yet,  when  you  come  to 
think—" 

"Well,  I  say  what  I  did  befo',"  said  Dr.  Alex- 
ander. "Her  brother  should  'a'  seen  to  it  thet 
no  sech  express  package  intended  for  his  child 
should  'a'  been  sent  to  the  aunt — not  in  her  state 
o'  mind." 

"  How  could  he  see  to  it  when  he  didn't  send 
it — didn't  know  it  was  comin'  ?  Of  co'se  we 
Simpkinsville  folks,  we  all  know  thet  she's  called 
Mary  Ellen,  an'  thet  Ned's  child  has  been  nick- 
named Nellie.  But  his  wife's  kin,  livin'  on  the 
other  side  o'  the  continent,  they  couldn't  be  ex- 


108  IK   SIMPKIXSVILLE 

pected  to  know  that,  an'  when  they  sent  her  that 
doll,  why,  they  nachelly  addressed  it  to  her  full 
name ;  an'  it  was  sent  up  to  Miss  Mary  Ellen's. 
Even  then  the  harm  needn't  to  've  been  done  ex- 
ceptin'  for  her  bein'  sick  abed,  an'  me,  her  doctor, 
hopin'  to  enliven  her  up  a  little  with  an  unexpect- 
ed present,  makes  the  nigger  'Polio  set  it  down 
by  her  bedside,  and  opens  it  befo'  her  eyes,  right 
there.  Maybe  I'm  to  blame  for  that — but  I  ain't. 
\\fe  can't  do  mo'  than  try  for  the  best.  I  thought 
likely  as  not  Ned  had  ordered  her  some  little 
Christmas  things— as  he  had,  in  another  box." 

The  old  doctor  stopped,  and,  taking  out  his 
handkerchief,  wiped  his  eyes. 

"  Of  co'se,  as  soon  as  I  see  what  it  was,  I 
knew  somebody  had  sent  it  to  little  Mary  Ellen, 
but — 

"You  say,  Brother  Binney,  thet  the  look  in 
her  face  at  the  weddin'  made  you  fall  on  yo' 
knees.  I  wish  you  could  'a'  seen  the  look  thet 
come  into  her  eyes  when  I  lifted  that  doll-baby 
out  of  that  box.  Heavenly  Father!  That  look 
is  one  o'  the  things  thet  11  come  back  to  me 
sometimes  when  I  wake  up  too  early  in  the 
mornin's,  an'  I  can't  get  back  to  sleep  for  it. 
But  at  the  time  I  didn't  fully  realize  it,  somehow. 
She  jest  reached  an'  took  the  doll  out  o'  my 
hands,  an'  turnin'  over,  with  her  face  to  the  wall, 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE   OF  LITTLE    MARY    ELLEN    109 

held  it  tight  in  her  arms  without  say  in'  a  word. 
Then  she  lay  still  for  so  long  that-a-way  thet  by- 
an'-bye  I  commenced  to  get  uneasy  less'n  she'd 
fainted.  So  I  leaned  over  an'  felt  of  her  pulse, 
an'  I  see  she  was  layin'  there  cryin'  over  it  with- 
out a  sound — an'  I  come  away.  I  don't  know 
how  came  I  to  be  so  thick-headed,  but  even 
then  I  jest  supposed  thet  seein'  the  doll  nachelly 
took  her  mind  back  to  the  time  she  was  a  child, 
an'  that  in  itself  was  mighty  sad  an'  pitiful  to 
me,  knowin'  her  story,  and  I  confess  to  you  I 
was  glad  there  wasn't  anybody  I  had  to  speak 
to  on  my  way  out.  I  tell  you  I  was  about  cry- 
in'  myself — jest  over  the  pitifulness  of  even  that. 
But  next  day  when  I  went  back  of  co'se  I  see 
how  it  was.  She  never  had  doubted  for  a  min- 
ute thet  that  doll  was  the  baby  she'd  been  pray- 
in'  for — not  a  minute.  An' she  don't,  not  to  this 
day — straight  as  her  mind  is  on  some  things. 
That's  why  I  call  it  a  psychological  impossi- 
bility, she  bein'  so  rational  an'  so  crazy  at  the 
same  time.  Sent  for  me  only  last  week,  an' 
when  I  got  there  I  found  her  settin'  down  with 
it  a-layin'  in  her  lap,  an'  she  lookin'  the  very 
picture  of  despair.  '  Doctor,'  says  she,  '  I'm 
sure  they's  mo'  wrong  with  Mary  Ellen  than 
you  let  on  to  me.  She  don't  grow,  doctor.''  An' 
with  that  she  started  a-sobbin'  an'  a-rockin'  back 


110  IN    SIMPKINSVILLE 

an'  fo'th  over  it.  'An'  even  the  few  words  she 
could  say,  doctor,  she  seems  to  forget  'em,'  says 
she.  'She  'ain't  called  my  name  for  a  week.' 
It's  a  fact ;  the  little  talkin'-machine  inside  it 
has  got  out  o'  fix  some  way,  an'  it  don't  say 
'mamma'  and  'papa'  any  mo'." 

"Have  you  ever  thought  about  slippin'  it  away 
from  her,  doctor,  an'  seein'  if  maybe  she  wouldn't 
forget  it  ?     If  she  was  my  patient  I'd  try  it." 

"Yas,  but  you  wouldn't  keep  it  up.  I  did 
try  it  once-t.  Told  old  Milly  thet  ef  she  fretted 
too  much  not  to  give  her  the  doll,  but  to  send 
for  me.  An'  she  did — in  about  six  hours.  An' 
I — well,  when  I  see  her  face  I  jest  give  it 
back  to  her.  An'  I'll  never  be  the  one  to  take 
it  from  her  again.  It  comes  nearer  givin'  her 
happiness  than  anything  else  could — an'  what 
could  be  mo'  innocent  ?  She's  even  mo'  con- 
tented since  her  mother  died  an'  there  ain't 
anybody  to  prevent  her  carryin'  it  on  the  street. 
I  know  it  plegged  Ned  at  first  to  see  her  do  it, 
but  he's  never  said  a  word.  He's  one  in  a  thou- 
sand. He  cares  mo'  for  his  sister's  happiness 
than  for  how  she  looks  to  other  folks.  Most 
brothers  don't.  There  ain't  a  mornin'  but  he 
drives  in  there  to  see  ef  she  wants  anything, 
an',  of  co'se,  keepin'  up  the  old  place  jest  for  her 
to  live  in  it  costs  him  consider'ble.     He  says  she 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE   OF  LITTLE    MARY   ELLEX    HI 

wouldn't  allow  it,  but  she  thinks  Clarence  pays 
for  everything,  an'  of  co'se  he  was  fully  able." 

"I  don't  think  it's  a  good  way  for  her  to  live, 
doctor,  in  that  big  old  place  with  jest  them  two 
old  niggers.  I  never  have  thought  so.  Ef  she 
was  my  patient — " 

"  Well,  pardner,  that's  been  talked  over  be- 
tween Ned  an'  his  wife,  an'  they've  even  con- 
sulted me.  An'  I  b'lieve  she  ought  to  be  let 
alone.  Those  two  old  servants  take  about  as 
good  care  of  her  as  anybody  could.  Milly  nursed 
her  when  she  was  a  baby,  an'  she  loves  the 
ground  she  walks  on,  an'  she  humors  her  in 
everything.  Why,  I've  gone  out  there  an'  found 
that  old  nigger  walkin'  that  doll  up  an'  down 
the  po'ch,  singing  to  it  for  all  she  was  worth  ; 
an'  when  I'd  drive  up,  the  po'  ol'  thing  would 
cry  so  she  couldn't  go  in  the  house  for  ten  min- 
utes or  mo'.  No,  it  ain't  for  us  to  take  away 
sech  toys  as  the  Lord  sends  to  comfort  an'  amuse 
his  little  ones  ;  an'  the  weak-minded,  why,  they 
always  seem  that-a-way  to  me.  An'  sometimes, 
Avhen  I  come  from  out  of  some  of  our  homes 
where  everything  is  regular  and  straight  accord- 
in'  to  our  way  o'  lookin'  at  things,  an'  I  see  how 
miserable  an'  unhappy  everything  is,  an'  I  go 
out  to  the  old  Williams  place,  where  the  birds 
are  singin'  in  the  trees  an'  po'  Miss  Mary  Ellen 


112  IN   SIMPKIHTSVILLE 

is  happy  sewin'  her  little  doll-clo'es,  an'  the  old 
niggers  ain't  got  a  care  on  earth  but  to  look  after 
her —  Well,  I  dun'no'.  Ef  you'd  dare  say  the 
love  o'  God  wasn't  there,  /  wouldn't.  Of  co'se 
she  has  her  unhappy  moments,  an'  I  can  see  she's 
failin'  as  time  passes  ;  but  even  so,  ain't  this  for 
the  best  ?  They'd  be  somethin'  awful  about  it, 
to  me,  ef  she  kep'  a-growin'  stronger  through 
it  all.  One  o'  the  sweetest  providences  o'  sorrow 
is  thet  we  poor  mortals  fail  under  it.  There 
ain't  a  flower  thet  blooms  but  some  seed  has 
perished  for  it." 

It  was  at  a  meeting  of  the  woman's  prayer- 
meeting,  about  a  week  after  the  conversation 
just  related,  that  Mrs.  Blanks,  the  good  sister 
who  led  the  meeting,  rose  to  her  feet,  and,  after 
a  silence  that  betokened  some  embarrassment  in 
the  subject  she  essayed,  said  : 

"  My  dear  sisters,  I've  had  a  subjec'  on  my 
mind  for  a  long  time,  a  subjec'  thet  I've  hesi- 
tated to  mention,  but  the  mo'  I  put  it  away  the 
mo'  it  seems  to  come  back  to  me.  I've  hesi- 
tated because  she's  got  kinfolks  in  this  prayer- 
meetin',  but  I  don't  believe  thet  there's  anybody 
kin  to  Miss  Mary  Ellen  thet  feels  any  nearer  to 
her  than  what  the  rest  of  us  do." 

"Amen!"  "Amen!"  and  "Amen!"  came  in 


THE    UXLIVED   LIFE   OF  LITTLE   MARY    ELLEK    113 

timid,  women's  voices  from  different  parts  of  the 
room. 

"I  know  how  you  all  feel  befo'  you  answer 
me,  my  dear  sisters/'  she  continued,  presently. 
'■'And  now  I  propose  to  you  thet  we,  first  here 
as  a  body  of  worshippers,  an'  then  separately  as 
Christian  women  at  home  in  our  closets,  make 
her  case  a  subjec'  of  special  prayer.  Let  us  ask 
the  good  Lord  to  relieve  her — jest  so — uncondi- 
tionally ;  to  take  this  cloud  off  her  life  an'  this 
sorrow  off  our  streets,  an'  I  believe  He'll  do  it." 

There  were  many  quiet  tears  shed  in  the  little 
prayer-meeting  that  morning  as,  with  faltering 
voice,  one  woman  after  another  spoke  her  word 
of  exhortation  or  petition  in  behalf  of  the  long- 
suffering  sister. 

That  this  revival  of  the  theme  by  the  wives 
and  mothers  of  the  community  should  have  re- 
sulted in  renewed  attentions  to  the  poor  dis- 
traught woman  was  but  natural.  It  is  sound 
orthodoxy  to  try  to  help  God  to  answer  our 
prayers.  And  so  the  faithful  women  of  the 
churches — there  were  a  few  of  every  denomina- 
tion in  town  in  the  union  prayer-meeting — be- 
gan to  go  to  her,  fully  resolved  to  say  some 
definite  word  to  win  her,  if  possible,  from  her 
hallucination,  to  break  the  spell  that  held  her  ; 
but  they  would  almost  invariably  come  away  full 


114  IN    SIMPKIXSVILLE 

of  contrition  over  such  false  and  comforting 
words  as  they  had  been  constrained  to  speak 
"over  a  soulless  and  senseless  doll/'' 

Indeed,  a  certain  Mrs.  Lynde,  one  of  the  most 
ardent  of  these  good  women,  but  a  sensitive  soul 
withal,  was  moved,  after  one  of  her  visits,  to 
confess  in  open  meeting  both  her  sin  and  her 
chagrin  in  the  following  humiliating  fashion  : 

"  I  declare  I  never  felt  so  'umbled  in  my  life 
ez  I  did  after  I  come  away  from  there,  a  week 
ago  come  Sunday.  Here  I  goes,  full  of  clear 
reasonin'  an'  Scripture  texts,  to  try  to  bring  her 
to  herself,  an'  I  'ain't  no  mo'n  set  down  sca'cely, 
when  I  looks  into  her  face,  as  she  sets  there  an' 
po's  out  her  sorrers  over  that  ridic'lous  little 
doll,  befo'  I'm  consolin'  her  with  false  hopes, 
like  a  perfec'  Ananias  an'  Sapphira.  Ef  any 
woman  could  set  down  an'  see  her  look  at  that 
old  doll's  face  when  she  says,  'Honey,  do  you 
reckon  I'll  ever  raise  her,  when  she  keeps  so 
puny  ?' — I  say  ef  any  woman  with  a  human  heart 
in  her  bosom  could  hear  her  say  that,  an'  not 
tell  her,  '  Cert'n'y  she'd  raise  her,'  an'  that  '  pu- 
nier children  than  that  had  growed  up  to  be 
healthy  men  an'  women' — well,  maybe  they  might 
be  better  Christians  than  I  am,  but  I  don't  never 
expec'  to  be  sanctified  up  to  that  point,  I  know 
I'm  an  awful  sinner,  deservin'  of  eternal  punish- 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE   OF  LITTLE   MAEY    ELLEN    115 

ment  for  deceit  which  is  the  same  as  a  lie,  but  I 
not  only  told  her  I  thought  she  could  raise  her, 
but  I  felt  her  pulse,  an'  said  it  wasn't  quite  what 
a  reel  hearty  child's  ought  to  be.  Of  co'se  I  said 
that  jest  to  save  myself  from  p'int-blank  lyin'. 
An'  then,  when  I  see  how  it  troubled  her  to 
think  it  wasn't  jest  right,  why,  God  forgive  me, 
but  I  felt  it  over  again,  an'  counted  it  by  my 
watch,  an'  then  I  up  an'  told  her  it  was  all 
right,  an'  thet  ef  it  had  a-been  any  different  to 
the  way  it  was  under  the  circumstances,  I'd  be 
awful  fearful,  which,  come  to  think  of  it,  that 
last  is  true  ez  God's  word,  for  ef  I'd  a-felt  a  pulse 
in  that  doll's  wrist — which,  tell  the  truth,  I  was 
so  excited  while  she  watched  me  I  half  expected 
to  feel  it  pulsate — I'd  'a'  shot  out  o'  that  door  a 
ravin'  lunatic.  I  come  near  enough  a-doin'  it 
when  she  patted  its  chest  an'  it  said  ( mamma' 
an'  'papa'  in  reply.  I  don't  know,  but  I  think 
thet  the  man  thet  put  words  into  a  doll's  breast, 
to  be  hugged  out  by  a  poor,  bereft,  weak-minded 
woman,  has  a  terrible  sin  to  answer  for.  Seems 
to  me  it's  a-breakin'  the  second  commandment, 
which  forbids  the  makin'  of  anything  in  the  like- 
ness of  anything  in  the  heavens  above  or  the 
earth  beneath,  which  a  baby  is  if  it's  anything, 
bein'  the  breath  o'  God  fresh-breathed  into  hu- 
man clay.     I  don't  know,  but  I  think  that  com- 


116  IK    SIMPKIXSVILLE 

mandment  is  aimed  jest  as  direct  at  talkin'  dolls 
ez  it  is  at  heathen  idols,  which,  when  you  come 
to  think  of  it,  ain't  p'intedly  made  after  the  im- 
age of  anything  in  creation  thet  we've  seen  sam- 
ples of,  after  all.  Them  thet  I've  seen  the  pict- 
ures of  ain't  no  mo'n  sech  outlandish  deformities 
thet  anybody  could  conceive  of  ef  he  imagined  a 
strange-figgured  person  standin'  befo'  a  cracked 
merror  so  ez  to  have  his  various  an'  sundry  parts 
duplicated,  promiscuous.  No,  I  put  down  the 
maker  of  that  special  an'  partie'lar  doll  ez  a 
greater  idolitor  than  them  thet,  for  the  want  o' 
knowin'  better,  stick  a  few  extry  members  on  a 
clay  statute  an'  pray  to  it  in  faith.  Ef  it  hadn't 
a-called  her '  mamma 'first  time  she  over-squeezed 
it,  I  don't  believe  for  a  minute  thet  that  doll 
would  ever  'a'  got  the  holt  upon  Mary  Ellen  thet 
it  has — I  don't  indeed." 

"Still" — it  was  Mrs.  Blanks  who  spoke  up  in 
reply,  wiping  her  eyes  as  she  began — "  still,  Sister 
Lynde,  you  know  she  frets  over  it  jest  ez  much 
sence  it's  lost  its  speech." 

"  Of  co'se,"  said  another  sister ;  "  an'  why 
shouldn't  she  ?  Ef  yo'  little  Katie  had  a-start- 
ed  talkin'  an'  then  stopped  of  a  suddent, 
wouldn't  you  'a'  been  worried,  I  like  to 
know  ?" 

"  Yas,  I  reckon  I  would," replied  Mrs,  Blanks; 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE    OF  LITTLE    MARY    ELLE>sT    117 

"  but  it's  hard  to  put  her  in  the  place  of  a  mother 
with  a  reel  child  —  even  in  a  person's  imagina- 
tion." 

There  had  been  in  Sirnpkinsville  an  occasional 
doll  whose  eyes  would  open  and  shut  as  she  was 
put  to  bed  or  taken  up,  and  the  crying  doll  was 
not  a  thing  unknown. 

That  the  one  which  should  play  so  conspicu- 
ous a  part  in  her  history  should  have  developed 
the  gift  of  speech,  invested  it  with  a  weird  and 
peculiar  interest. 

It  was,  indeed,  most  uncanny  and  sorrowful  to 
hear  its  poor  piping  response  to  the  distraught 
woman's  caresses  as  she  pressed  it  to  her  bosom. 

To  the  little  doll-loving  girls  of  Sirnpkinsville 
it  had  always  been  an  object  of  semi-superstitious 
reverence — a  thing  half  doll,  half  human,  almost 
alive. 

When  her  little  niece  Nellie,  a  tall  girl  of 
eight  years  now,  would  come  over  in  the  morn- 
ings and  beg  Aunt  Mary  Ellen  to  let  her  hold  the 
baby,  she  never  quite  knew,  as  she  walked  it  up 
and  down  the  yard,  under  the  mulberry-trees, 
with  the  green  veil  laid  lovingly  over  its  closed 
lids,  whether  to  look  for  a  lapse  from  its  human 
quality  into  ordinary  dollhood,  or  to  expect  a 
sudden  development  on  the  life  side. 


118  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

She  would,  no  doubt,  long  ago  have  lost  this 
last  hope,  in  the  lack  of  progression  in  its  me- 
chanical speech,  but  for  the  repeated  confidences 
of  her  aunt  Mary  Ellen. 

"  Why,  honey,  she  often  laughs  out  loud  an' 
turns  over  in  bed,  an'  sometimes  she  wakes  me 
up  cryin'  so  pitiful."  So  the  good  aunt,  who  had 
never  told  a  lie  in  all  her  pious  life,  often  as- 
sured her — assured  her  with  a  look  in  her  face 
that  was  absolutely  invincible  in  its  expression 
of  perfect  faith  in  the  thing  she  said. 

There  had  been  several  serious  conferences  be- 
tween her  father  and  mother  in  the  beginning, 
before  the  child  had  been  allowed  to  go  to  see 
Aunt  Mary  Ellen's  dolly — to  see  and  hold  it,  and 
inevitably  to  love  it  with  all  her  child  heart ;  but 
even  before  the  situation  had  developed  its  full 
sadness,  or  they  had  realized  how  its  coutingeu- 
cies  would  familiarize  every  one  with  the  strange, 
sad  stoiw,  the  arguments  were  in  the  child's 
favor.  To  begin  with,  the  doll  was  really  hers, 
though  it  was  thought  best,  in  the  circumstances, 
that  she  should  never  know  it.  Indeed,  at  first 
her  father  had  declared  that  she  should  have  one 
just  like  it;  but  when  it  was  found  that  its  price 
was  nearly  equal  to  the  value  of  a  bale  of  cotton, 
the  good  man  was  moved  to  declare  that  "the 
outlandish  thing,  with  its  heathenish  imitations, 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE   OF  LITTLE    MARY    ELLEN    119 

had  wrought  sorrer  enough  in  the  family  a'ready 
without  trying  to  duplicate  it." 

Still,  there  couldn't  be  any  harm  in  letting  her 
see  the  beautiful  toy.  And  so,  as  she  held  it  in 
her  arms,  the  child  came  vaguely  to  realize  that 
a  great  mystery  of  anxious  love  hovered  about 
this  strange,  weird  doll,  a  mystery  that,  to  her 
young  perception,  as  she  read  it  in  the  serious 
home  faces,  was  as  full  of  tragic  possibilities  as 
that  which  concerned  the  real  baby  sister  that 
lay  and  slept  and  waked  and  grew  in  the  home 
cradle — the  real,  warm,  heavy  baby  that  she  was 
sometimes  allowed  to  hold  "just  for  a  minute" 
while  the  nurse-mammy  followed  close  beside 
her. 

If  the  toy-baby  gave  her  the  greater  pleasure, 
may  it  not  have  been  because  she  dimly  perceived 
in  it  a  meeting-point  between  the  real  and  the 
imaginary  ?  Here  was  a  threshold  of  the  great 
wonder-world  that  primitive  peoples  and  children 
love  so  well.  They  are  the  great  mystics,  after 
all.  And  are  they  not,  perhaps,  wise  mystics  who 
sit  and  wonder  and  worship,  satisfied  not  to  un- 
derstand ? 

Summer  waned  and  went  out,  and  September 
came  in  —  September,  hot  and  murky  and  short 
of  breath,  as  one  ill  of  heart-failure.  Even  the 
prayer-meeting  women  who  had  taken  up  Miss 


120  IX   SIMPKIXSYILLE 

Mary  Ellen's  case  in  strong  faith,  determined 
not  to  let  it  go,  were  growing  faint  of  heart 
under  the  combined  pressure  of  disappointed 
hope  and  the  summer's  weight.  The  poor  object 
of  their  prayers,  instead  of  seeming  in  any  wise 
improved,  grew  rather  more  wan  and  weary  as 
time  wore  on.  Indeed,  she  sometimes  appeared 
definitely  worse,  and  would  often  draw  rein  in 
the  public  road  to  lift  the  doll  from  her  lap  and 
discuss  her  anxieties  concerning  it  with  any  pass- 
ing acquaintance,  or  even  on  occasion  to  exult  in 
a  fancied  improvement. 

This  was  a  thing  she  had  never  done  before  the 
women  began  to  pray,  and  it  took  a  generous 
dispensation  of  faith  to  enable  them  to  continue 
steadfast  in  the  face  of  such  discouragement. 
But,  as  is  sometimes  the  case,  greater  faith  came 
from  the  greater  need,  and  the  prayer-meeting 
grew.  In  the  face  of  its  new  and  painful  phases, 
as  the  tragedy  took  on  a  fresh  sadness,  even  a 
few  cliurchly  women  who  had  stood  aloof  at  the 
beginning  waived  their  sectarian  differences  and 
came  into  the  meeting.  And  there  were  strange 
confessions  sometimes  at  these  gatherings,  where 
it  was  no  uncommon  thing  for  a  good  sister  to 
relate  how,  on  a  certain  occasion,  she  had  either 
"burst  out  cryin'  to  keep  from  laughin',"  or 
"laughed  like  a  heathen  jest  to  keep  from  cryin'." 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE    OF  LITTLE   MARY    ELLEN    121 

The  situation  was  now  grown  so  sad  and  pain- 
ful that  the  doctors  called  a  consultation  of 
neighboring  physicians,  even  bringing  for  the 
purpose  a  "specialist"'  all  the  way  from  the 
Little  Rock  Asylum,  hoping  little,  but  deter- 
mined to  spare  no  effort  for  the  bettering  of 
things. 

After  this  last  effort  and  its  discouraging  re- 
sult, all  hope  of  recovery  seemed  gone,  and  so 
the  good  women,  when  they  prayed,  despairing 
of  human  agency,  asked  simply  for  a  miracle, 
reading  aloud,  for  the  support  of  their  faith, 
the  stories  of  marvellous  healing  as  related  in 
the  gospels. 

It  was  on  a  sultry  morning,  after  a  night  of 
rain,  near  the  end  of  September.  Old  Dr.  Jen- 
kins stood  behind  the  showcase  in  his  drug-store 
dealing  out  quinine  pills  and  earache  drops  to 
the  poor  country  folk  and  negroes,  who,  with 
sallow  faces  or  heads  bound  up,  declared  them- 
selves "  chillin' ''"  or  "  painful "  while  they  waited. 
Patient  as  cows,  they  stood  in  line  while  the  dis- 
pensing hand  of  healing  passed  over  to  their 
tremulous,  eager  palms  the  promised  "  help " 
for  their  assorted  "miseries." 

It  was  a  humble  crowd  of  sufferers,  deferring 
equally,  as   they  waited,  to  the  dignitary  who 


122  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

served  them  and  to  his  environment  of  mysterious 
potencies,  whose  unreadable  Latin  labels  glared 
at  them  in  every  direction  as  if  in  challenge  to 
their  faith  and  respect.  To  the  thoughtful  ob- 
server it  seemed  an  epitome  of  suffering  hu- 
manity— patient  humanity  waiting  to  be  healed 
by  some  great  and  mysterious  Unknowable. 

It  may  have  been  their  general  attitude  of 
unconscious  deference  that  moved  the  crowd  to 
fall  quickly  back  at  the  entrance  of  the  first  as- 
sertive visitor  of  the  morning,  or  perhaps  old 
'Polio,  the  negro,  as  he  came  rushing  into  the 
shop,  would  have  been  accorded  right  of  way  in 
a  more  pretentious  gathering.  There  was  cer- 
tainly that  in  his  appearance  which  demanded 
attention. 

He  had  galloped  up  to  the  front  door,  his 
horse  in  a  lather  from  the  long,  hot  ride  from  the 
Williams  homestead,  four  miles  away,  and,  throw- 
ing his  reins  across  the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  had 
burst  into  the  drug-store  with  an  excited  appeal: 

"  Doctor  Jinkins,  come  quick  !  For  Gord's 
sake  !  Miss  Mary  Ellen  need  you,  Marse  Doc- 
tor— she  need  you — right  off!" 

He  did  not  wait  for  a  response.  He  had  de- 
livered his  summons,  and,  turning  without  an- 
other word,  he  remounted  his  horse  and  rode 
awav. 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE    OF  LITTLE    MARY    ELLEN"   123 

It  was  not  needed  that  the  doctor  should  offer 
any  apologies  to  his  patients  for  following  him. 
He  did  not,  indeed,  seem  to  remember  that  they 
were  there  as  he  seized  his  coat,  and,  without 
even  waiting  to  put  it  on,  quickly  unhitched  his 
horse  tied  at  the  front  door,  and  followed  the 
negro  down  the  road. 

It  was  a  matter  of  but  a  few  moments  to  over- 
take him,  and  when  the  two  were  riding  abreast 
the  doctor  saw  that  the  old  man  was  crying. 

"De  dorg,  he  must  V  done  it,  Marse  Doctor," 
he  began,  between  sobs.  "  He  must  V  got  in 
las'  night.  It  was  so  hot  we  lef  all  de  do's  open, 
same  lak  we  been  doin' —  But  it  warn't  we-alls 
fault,  doctor.  But  de  dorg,  he  must  'a'  snatch 
de  doll  out'n  de  cradle  an'  run  out  in  de  yard 
wid  it,  an'  it  lay  a-soakin'  in  de  rain  all  night. 
"When  Miss  Mary  Ellen  fust  woked  up  dis  morn- 
in',  she  called  out  to  Milly  to  fetch  de  baby  in 
to  her.  Milly  she  often  tecks  it  out'n  de  cradle 
early  in  de  mornin'  'f  o'  missy  wakes  up,  an'  make 
pertend  lak  she  feeds  it  in  de  kitchen.  An'  dis 
mornin',  when  she  call  for  it,  Milly,  she  'spon' 
back,  '  I  'ain't  got  her,  missy  !'  jes  dat-a-way. 
An'  wid  dat,  'fo'  you  could  bat  yo'  eye,  missy 
Avas  hop  out'n  dat  bed  an'  stan'  in  de  middle  o' 
de  kitchen  in  her  night-gownd,  white  in  de  face 
as  my  whitewash-bresh.     An'  when  she  had  look 


124  IN    SIMPKINSVILLE 

at  Milly  an'  den  at  me,  she  sclaini  out,  'Whar 
my  child?'  I  tell  you,  Marso  Doctor,  Avdien  I  see 
dat  look  an'  lieali  dat  inquiry,  I  trimbled  so  dat 
dat  kitchen  flo'  shuck  tell  de  kittle-leds  on  do 
stove  rattled.  An'  Milly,  she  see  how  scarified 
missy  look,  an'  she  commence  to  tu'n  roun'  an' 
seek  for  words,  when  we  heah  pit-a-pat,  pit-a-pat, 
on  de  po'ch ;  an',  good  Gord,  Marse  Doctor  ! 
heah  come  Eover,  draggin'  dat  po'  miser'ble  lit- 
tle doll-baby  in  his  mouf,  drippin'  wid  mud  an' 
sopped  wid  rain-water.  Quick  as  I  looked  at  it 
I  see  dat  bofe  eyes  was  done  soaked  out  an'  de 
paint  gone,  an'  all  its  yaller  hair  it  had  done 
eve'y  bit  soaked  off.  Sir  ?  Oh,  I  don't  know, 
sir,  how  she  gwine  teck  it.  Dey  ain't  no  sayin' 
as  to  dat.  She  hadn't  come  to  when  I  come  away. 
She  had  jes  drapped  down  in  a  dead  faint  in  the 
mids'  o'  de  kitchen,  an'  I  holp  Milly  lif  her  on 
to  de  bed,  an'  I  come  for  you.  Co'se  I  had  to 
stop  an'  ketch  de  horse ;  an'  de  roads,  dey  was 
so  awful  muddy  an' — " 

It  was  a  long  ride  over  the  heavy  roads,  and 
as  the  good  doctor  trotted  along,  with  the  old 
darky  steadily  talking  beside  him,  he  presently 
ceased  to  hear. 

Having  once  realized  the  situation,  his  pro- 
fessional mind  busied  itself  in  speculations  as  to 
the  probable  result  of  so  critical  an  incident  to 


THE    UNLIVED   LIFE    OF   LITTLE   MARY    ELLEN   125 

his  patient.  Accident,  chance,  or  mayhap  a  kind 
providence,  had  done  for  her  the  thing  he  had 
long  wished  to  try  but  had  not  dared.  The 
mental  shock,  with  the  irreparable  loss  of  the 
doll,  would  probably  have  a  definite  effect  for 
good  or  ill — if,  indeed,  she  would  consent  even 
now  to  give  it  up.  Of  course  there  was  no  tell- 
ing. 

This  question  was  almost  immediately  an- 
swered, however,  for  when,  presently,  the  old 
negro  led  the  way  into  the  lane  leading  to  the 
Williams  gate,  preceding  the  doctor  so  as  to 
open  the  gate  for  him,  he  leaned  suddenly  over 
his  horse's  neck  and  peered  eagerly  forward. 
Then  drawing  rein  for  a  moment,  he  called 
back  : 

"  Marse  Doctor,  look  hard,  please,  sir,  an'  see 
what  dat  my  oF  'oman  Milly  is  doin'  out  at  de 
front  gate." 

The  doctor's  eyes  were  little  better  than  his 
companion's.  Still,  he  was  able  in  a  moment  to 
reply : 

"  Why,  old  man,  she  is  tying  a  piece  of  white 
muslin  upon  the  gate-post.  Something  has  hap- 
pened." 

"  White  is  for  babies,  ain't  it,  Marse  Doctor  ?" 

"  Yes— or  for—" 

"Den  it  mus'  be  she's  give  it  up  for  dead." 


126  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

The  old  man  began  sobbing  again. 
"Yes;  thank  God!"  said  the  doctor.     And 
he  wiped  his  eyes. 

The  bit  of  fluttering  white  that  hung  upon 
the  gate  at  the  end  of  the  lane  had  soon  told  its 
absurd  and  pitiful  little  tale  of  Avoe  to  the  few 
passers-by  on  the  road — its  playful  announcement 
of  half  the  story,  the  comedy  side,  pathetically 
suggesting  the  tragedy  that  was  enacting  within. 

Before  many  hours  all  Simpkinsville  knew 
what  had  happened,  and  the  little  community 
had  succumbed  to  an  attack  of  hysteria. 

Simpkinsville  was  not  usually  of  a  particularly 
nervous  or  hysterical  temper,  but  a  wholesome 
sense  of  the  ludicrous,  colliding  with  her  mater- 
nal love  for  her  afflicted  child,  could  not  do  less 
than  find  relief  in  simultaneous  laughter  and  tears. 

And  still,  be  it  said  to  their  credit,  when  the 
good  women  separated,  after  meeting  in  the  vari- 
ous houses  to  talk  it  over,  it  was  the  mark  of 
tears  that  remained  upon  their  faces. 

But  when  it  was  presently  known  that  their 
nerve  poise  was  to  be  critically  tested  by  a 
"funeral"  announced  for  the  next  day,  there 
Avas  less  emotion  exhibited,  perhaps,  and  there 
were  more  quiet  consultations  among  the  seri- 
ous-minded. 


M. 


1  % . 


'•**=■■■ 


WHITE   IS   FOR   BABIES 


THE   UNLIVED   LIFE   OF  LITTLE    MART   ELLEN    127 

When  Miss  Mary  Ellen,  prostrate  and  wan 
with  the  burden  of  her  long-borne  sorrow,  had 
from  her  pillow  quietly  given  instructions  for  the 
burial,  the  old  doctor,  who  solicitously  watched 
beside  her,  in  the  double  capacity  of  friend  and 
physician,  had  not  been  able  to  say  her  nay. 

And  when  on  the  next  day  he  had  finally  in- 
vited a  conference  on  the  subject  with  her 
brother,  the  minister,  his  fellow-doctor,  and 
several  personal  friends  of  the  family,  there 
were  heavy  lines  about  his  eyes,  and  he  con- 
fessed that  before  daring  his  advice  on  so  sen- 
sitive a  point  he  had  "  walked  the  flo'  the  live- 
long night." 

And  then  he  had  strongly,  unequivocally,  ad- 
vised the  funeral. 

"We've  thought  it  best  to  humor  her  all  the 
way  through,"  he  began,  "  an'  now,  when  the 
end  is  clairly  in  sight,  why,  there  ain't  any 
consistency  in  changin'  the  treatment.  Maybe 
when  it's  buried  she'll  forget  it,  an'  in  time  come 
to  herself.  Of  co'se  it  '11  be  a  try  in'  ordeel,  but 
there's  enough  of  us  sensible  relations  an'  friends 
thet  '11  go  through  it,  if  need  be."  He  had 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  as  he  spoke,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  him,  and  now  he  stopped 
before  the  minister.  "  Of  co'se,  Brother  Bin- 
ney"  —  he  spoke  with  painful  hesitation  —  "of 


128  LET    SIMPKIXSVILLE 

co'se  she'll  look  for  you  to  come  an'  to  put  up  a 
prayer,  an'  maybe  read  a  po'tion  o'  Scripture. 
An'  I've  thought  that  over.  Seems  to  me  the 
whole  thing  is  sad  enough  for  religious  services 
— ef  anything  is.  I've  seen  reel  funerals  thet 
wasn't  half  so  mo'nful,  ef  I'm  any  judge  of 
earthly  sorrers.  There  wouldn't  be  any  occasion 
to  bring  in  the  doll  in  the  services,  I  don't  think. 
But  there  ain't  any  earthly  grief,  in  my  opinion, 
but's  got  a  Scripture  tex'  to  match  it,  ef  it's 
properly  selected." 

A  painful  stillness  followed  this  appeal.  And 
then,  after  closing  his  eyes  for  a  moment  as  if  in 
prayer,  the  good  minister  said  : 

"  Of  course,  my  dear  friends,  you  can  see  thet 
this  thing  can't  be  conducted  as  a  funeral.  But, 
as  our  good  brother  has  jest  remarked,  for  all 
the  vicissitudes  of  life  —  and  death  —  for  our 
safety  in  joy  and  our  comfort  in  sorrow,  we  are 
given  precious  words  of  sweet  and  blessed  con- 
solation." 

The  saddest  funeral  gathering  in  all  the  an- 
nals of  Simpkinsville — so  it  is  still  always  called 
by  those  who  wept  at  the  obsequies — was  that  of 
Miss  Mary  Ellen's  doll,  led  by  the  good  brother 
on  the  following  day. 

The   prayer  -  meeting   women  were   there,   of 


THE    UNLIVED    LIFE   OF  LITTLE    MARY    ELLEN    129 

course,  fortified  in  their  faith  by  the  supreme 
demand  laid  upon  it,  and  even  equipped  with 
fresh  self-control  for  this  crucial  test  of  their 
poise  and  worthiness.  Their  love  was  deep  and 
sincere,  and  yet  so  sensitive  were  they  to  the 
dangers  of  this  most  precarious  situation  that 
when  presently  the  minister  entered,  book  in 
hand,  a  terrible  apprehension  seized  them. 

It  was  as  a  great  wave  of  indescribable  fright, 
so  awful  that  for  a  moment  their  hearts  seemed 
to  stop  beating,  so  irresistible  in  its  force  that 
unless  it  should  be  quickly  stayed  it  must  pres- 
ently break  in  some  emotion. 

No  doubt  the  good  brother  felt  it  too,  for  in- 
stead of  opening  his  book,  as  had  been  his  in- 
tention, he  laid  it  down  upon  the  table  before 
him — the  small  centre -table  upon  which  lay 
what  seemed  a  tiny  mound  heaped  with  flow- 
ers—  and,  placing  both  hands  upon  the  bowed 
head  of  the  little  woman  who  sat  beside  it, 
closed  his  eyes,  and  raised  his  face  heavenward. 

"  Dear  Lord,  Thou  knowest,"  he  said,  slowly. 
Then  finding  no  other  words,  perhaps,  and  will- 
ing to  be  still,  he  waited  a  moment  in  silence. 

When  he  spoke  again  the  wave  had  broken. 
The  air  seemed  to  sway  with  the  indescribable 
vibrations  that  tell  of  silent  weeping,  and  every 
face  was  buried  in  a  handkerchief. 

9 


130  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

"  Thon  knowest,  0  Lord,"  he  resumed,  pres- 
ently, raising  his  voice  a  little  as  if  in  an  access 
of  courage — "Thou  knowest  how  dear  to  our 
hearts  is  Thy  handmaiden,  this  beloved  sister 
who  sits  in  sorrow  among  us  to-day.  Thou 
knowest  how  we  love  her.  Thou  knowest  that 
her  afflictions  are  ours.  And  oh,  dear  Father, 
if  it  be  possible,  grant  that  when  we  have  rever- 
ently put  this  poor  little  symbol  of  our  common 
sorrow  out  of  sight  forever,  Thy  peace  may  de- 
scend and  fill  her  heart  and  ours  with  Thy  ever- 
lasting benediction." 

The  words,  which  had  come  slowly,  though 
without  apparent  effort,  might  have  been  in- 
spired. Surely  they  sounded  to  the  women  who 
waited  as  if  uttered  by  a  voice  from  Heaven, 
and  to  their  spiritually  attuned  ears  it  was  a 
voice  comforting,  composing,  quieting. 

After  this  followed  a  reading  of  Scripture — 
a  selection  taken  for  its  wide  application  to  all 
God's  sorrowing  people — and  the  singing  of  the 
beautiful  hymn, 

"God  shall  charge  His  angel  legions 
Watch  and  ward  o'er  thee  to  keep." 

This  was  sung,  without  a  break,  from  the  be- 
ginning clear  through  to  the  end,  with  its 
sweet  promise  to  the  grief-stricken  of  "life  be- 


THE   UNLIVED   LIFE  OF  LITTLE   MARY   ELLEN   131 

yond  the  grave."  Then  came  the  benediction — 
the  benediction  of  the  churches  since  the  days 
of  the  apostles,  used  of  all  Christians  the  world 
over,  but  ever  beautiful  and  new — "  The  peace 
of  God,  which  passeth  all  understanding,  keep 
your  hearts  and  minds,"  etc. 

All  the  company  had  risen  for  this — all  ex- 
cepting Miss  Mary  Ellen,  who  during  the  entire 
ceremony  had  not  changed  her  position  —  and 
when  it  was  finished,  when  the  moment  of  silent 
prayers  was  over  and  one  by  one  the  women  rose 
from  their  knees,  there  came  an  awkward  inter- 
val pending  the  next  step  in  this  most  difficult 
and  exceptional  service. 

The  little  woman  in  whose  behalf  it  had  been 
conducted,  for  whom  all  the  prayers  had  been 
said,  made  no  sign  by  which  her  further  will 
should  be  made  known.  It  had  been  expected 
that  she  would  herself  go  to  the  burial,  and 
against  this  contingency  a  little  grave  had  been 
prepared  in  the  family  burial  -  ground,  which, 
happily,  was  situated  upon  her  own  ground, 
in  a  grove  of  trees  a  short  distance  from  the 
house. 

After  Avaiting  for  some  moments,  and  seeing 
that  she  still  did  not  move,  the  reverend  brother 
finally  approached  her  and  laid  his  palm  as 
before  upon  her  head.     Then,  quickly  reaching 


132  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

around,  he  drew  her  hand  from  beneath  her 
cheek,  felt  her  pulse,  and  now,  turning,  he  mo- 
tioned to  the  doctor  to  come. 

The  old  man,  Dr.  Jenkins,  lifted  her  limp 
arm  tenderly  and  felt  her  wrist,  listened  with 
his  ear  against  her  bosom,  waited,  and  listened 
again — and  again.  And  then,  laying  back  the 
hand  tenderly,  he  took  his  handkerchief  from 
his  pocket  and  wiped  his  eyes. 

"Dear  friends,"  he  said,  huskily,  " your  pray- 
ers have  been  answered.  Sister  Mary  Ellen  has 
found  peace." 


THE  DIVIDING-FENCE 

A    SIMPKItfSVILLE    EPISODE 


THE  DIVIDING-FENCE 


THE  widow  Carroll  and  widower  Bradfield 
were  next  neighbors.     Indeed,  they  were 
the  nearest  next  neighbors  in  Simpkins- 
ville,  their  houses,  contrary  to  the  village  fash- 
ion, standing  scarce  thirty  feet  apart. 

The  cordial  friendly  relations  long  existing  be- 
tween the  two  families  were  still  indicated  by 
the  well-worn  "stoop"  set  in  the  dividing-fence 
between  the  two  gardens,  its  three  steps  on  either 
side  a  perpetual  invitation  to  social  intercourse. 
Here,  in  the  old  days,  the  two  wives  were  wont 
to  meet  for  neighborly  converse,  each  generally 
sitting  on  her  own  side,  while  the  "landing"  at 
the  stoop's  summit  answered  for  table,  set  con- 
viently  between  them.  Here  it  had  been  a  com- 
mon thing  to  see  two  thimbles  standing  off  duty 
beside  spools  of  thread  and  bits  of  sewing — little 
sleeves  or  patch-work  squares — while  their  mis- 
tresses bent  over  flower  beds  or  pots ;  for  many  an 


136  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

industrious  intention  was  thwarted  by  the  witch- 
ery of  growing  things  on  both  sides  the  fence. 
Indeed,  every  one  of  the  fine  flowering  geraniums 
that  bloomed  on  either  porch  had  at  one  time  or 
another  passed  over  this  stoop  as  a  cutting,  or 
been  taxed  in  some  of  its  members  for  the  friend- 
ly transit. 

Here,  too,  had  passed  cake  receipts  and  panta- 
let  patterns,  bits  of  yeast-cake  and  preserving- 
kettles.  Here  were  exchanged  comments  upon 
last  Sunday's  sermons,  and  lengthy  opinions  upon 
such  questions  as  frequently  disturb  the  maternal 
mind ;  as,  for  instance,  whether  it  were  wiser  for 
parents  to  put  their  children  through  the  con- 
tagious diseases  of  childhood  as  opportunity  of- 
fered, or  to  shun  them,  hoping  for  life-long  im- 
munity. In  such  arguments  as  this  Mrs.  Carroll 
had  usually  the  advantage  of  a  positive  opinion. 
On  this  identical  question,  for  example,  she  had 
frankly  declared  her  sentiments  in  this  wise  : 

"  Well,  they's  some  ketchin'  diseases  thet  I'd 
send  my  child'en  after  in  a  minute,  ef  they  Avas 
handy ;  an'  then,  agin,  they's  others  thet  I 
wouldn't  dare  to,  though,  ef  they  was  to  come, 
I'd  be  glad  when  they  was  over.  Any  disease 
thet's  got  any  principle  to  it  I  ain't  afeerd  to 
tackle,  sech  ez  measles,  which  they've  been  mea- 
sles, behavin'  'cordin'  to  rule,  comin'  an'  goin'  ef 


THE   DIVIDING-FENCE  137 

they  was  kep'  het  an*  sweated  correct,  ever  sence 
the  first  measle.  But  scarlet-fever,  now,  fin- 
stance,  that's  another  thing.  My  b'lief  is  thet 
God  sends  some  diseases,  an'  the  devil,  he  sends 
others/' 

Mrs.  Bradfield  had  agreed  that  perhaps  it  ivas 
a  mother's  duty  to  carry  her  children  through  as 
many  ailments  as  possible  while  she  was  here  to 
see  to  it,  and  yet — for  her  part — well,  she  "  didn't 
know."  She  had  known  even  measles  to —  "But, 
of  co'se,  they  was  black  measles,  or  else  they 
wasn't  properly  drawed  out  o'  the  circulation," 
she  had  finally  allowed.  "And,  of  co'se,  ez  you 
say,  Mis'  Carroll,  maybe  they  wasn't  measles. 
You  can't,  to  say,  rightly  prove  a  measle  thet 
ain't  broke  out.  Tell  the  truth,  I'd  be  fearful 
to  sen'  for  any  disease  less'n  it  had  a'ready  come 
an'  gone  'thout  killin'  nobody,  which  would  seem 
to  prove  thet  it  wasn't  of  a  fatal  nature.  An' 
then,  of  co'se,  it  'd  be  too  late  to  get  it.  But  ez 
to  ascribin'  diseases  either  up  or  down,  Mis'  Car- 
roll," she  had  concluded,  "I  wouldn't  dare  do  it, 
less'n  I  might  be  unconsciously  honorin'  the  Evil 
One  or  f/t'shonorin'  God." 

"An',  of  co'se,"  Mrs.  Carroll  had  smilingly 
replied — "  of  co'se  /  don't  want  to  give  Satan  no 
mo'n  his  due,  neither.  But  they  do  say,  'God 
sends  the  babies  their  teeth,  and  lets  the  devil 


138  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

set  'em  in ' — an'  that's  why  the  pore  little  things 
have  sech  trouble  cuttin'  'em.  Seem  like  the 
wrastle  with  Satan  begins  pretty  early.  'Cordin' 
to  that,  the  Old  Boy  was,  ez  you  might  say,  the 
first  dentist,  an'  all  the  endurin'  dentists  sence 
'ain't  been  able  to  cast  him  out  o'  the  profes- 
sion." 

"No,  an'  never  will,  I  reckon,  till  he  is  re- 
quired to  hand  in  his  pattern  for  jaw-teeth  roots, 
an'  to  go  by  it.  But,  bein'  Satan,  an'  of  co'se  un- 
principled, I  reckon  he  wouldn't  keep  to  it,  even 
then." 

Of  course  in  this,  as  in  all  next -neighbor 
friendships,  there  had  been  points  of  contact  that 
could  easily  have  induced  friction,  but  they  were 
never  openly  confessed,  and  are  certainly  now 
unworthy  of  more  than  such  casual  notice  as  an 
unfolding  retrospect  may  reveal. 

It  was  nearly  two  years  now  since  the  two 
thimbles  had  rested  on  the  stoop  landing.  In 
the  interval  sorrow  had  entered  both  gates.  The 
crepe  band  upon  Bradfield's  Sunday  hat  was 
gradually  loosening  of  its  own  accord,  until  now 
every  passing  breeze  seemed  to  threaten  his  good 
wife's  memory.  But  the  figure  was  playing  him 
false,  so  far  as  any  open  manifestation  of  f orget- 
fulness  went. 

His  neighbor  had  never  worn  crepe,  but  her 


THE   DIVIDING-FENCE  139 

mourning  was  still  in  evidence  in  all  its  pristine 
moderation  on  every  important  occasion.  Simp- 
kinsville  conventions  were  lax  as  regards  this 
tribute  paid  her  dead,  and  gauged  the  loyalty  of 
their  surviving  relations  by  other  than  color  stand- 
ards. A  good  black  alpaca  dress  in  hand  needed 
not  even  to  surrender  its  bands  of  velvet,  not 
to  mention  its  lustre,  to  serve  as  widow's  weeds,  a 
first  evidence  of  its  wearer's  l '  beginning  to  take 
notice"  being  perhaps  not  so  much  the  "  Valen- 
ceens  ruche "  which  was  expected  to  appear  at 
her  neck  in  due  season  as  that  which  it  ushered 
in.  The  new  order  meant  reappearance  at  church 
sociables  after  lamp-light,  taking  part  at  fairs  and 
the  like,  and  a  final  emergence  in  full  feather  of 
forgetfulness  at  the  spring  barbecue  or  camp- 
meeting. 

The  widow  Carroll,  always  a  woman  of  her  own 
mind,  had  begun  with  the  Valenciennes  ruche, 
nor  had  she  ever  forsaken  her  post  as  server  of 
meats  at  church  functions.  But  during  the  two 
years  of  her  mourning  she  had  not  changed. 
There  had  been  no  second  stage.  She  had  not 
meant,  from  the  beginning,  that  there  should  be. 
If  she  should  ever  marry  again,  the  "good  ez 
new"  blue  ribbon  bow,  ripped  off  her  black  dress 
for  the  funeral,  would  naively  reappear  in  its  old 
place,  pinned  in  the  centre  with  the  now  dis- 


140  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

carded  coral  pin.  But  this  is  unprofitable  sur- 
mise. 

Of  course  Dame  Gossip  had  married  her  off- 
hand to  her  neighbor  before  his  wife  was  decently 
buried.  And  of  course  a  woman  of  Mary  Car- 
roll's strength  of  mind  had  ignored  all  such  pre- 
dictions, and  had  done  all  the  things  a  less  self- 
reliant  woman  would  not  have  dared.  She  had 
"done  for  Susan's  children  jest  exactly  ez  ef 
they'd  been  her  own  sister's,  from  the  start." 
This  tribute  even  the  busy  tongues  of  the  village 
had  finally  been  constrained  to  accord  her. 

The  situation,  like  the  ruche,  though  startling 
at  first,  had  remained  as  unaltered.  The  stoop 
was  still,  in  a  different  way,  as  conducive  to 
friendly  intercourse  as  of  yore.  Though  the 
maternal  neighbor  had  never  crossed  it,  except- 
ing twice,  in  cases  of  sickness,  she  had  not  hesi- 
tated to  utilize  it  as  a  dispensing  -  station  for 
sundry  neighborly  ministrations,  as  when  on  raw 
mornings  "  in-the-spring-o'-the-year,"  after  simi- 
larly fortifying  her  own  brood,  she  had  armed 
herself  with  quinine  capsules  and  a  gourd  dipper 
of  water,  and  administered  the  bitter  refresh- 
ment to  the  entire  Bradfield  lot,  even  on  one  oc- 
casion including  the  pater.  Nor  had  she  stopped 
at  this ;  for,  after  the  passage  of  the  friendly 
swallow,  she  was  heard  to  observe,  in  all  serious- 


THE   DIVIDING-FENCE  141 

ness,  "Mr.  Bradfield,  I  see  they's  a  fillin'  done 
come  out  o'  one  o'  yore  back  teeth,  an'  I'd  advise 
you  to  look  after  it."  And  then,  her  errand  fully 
accomplished,  she  had  turned  back  to  her  own 
house.  It  was  not  her  habit  to  linger  about  the 
stoop  for  idle  parley.  Needless  to  say,  Bradfield 
rode  out  to  consult  the  dentist  that  day. 

The  situation  thus  briefly  sketched  seemed, 
indeed,  to  have  reached  a  state  of  entire  safety, 
as  far  as  any  possible  romance  was  concerned. 
But  how  often  are  apparent  safety-lines  found 
to  be  charged  with  strong  and  dangerous  cur- 
rents !  Strange  to  say,  it  was  just  when  gossip 
had  declared  against  its  early  predictions,  and 
was  beginning  to  cast  about  among  its  maturer 
marriageable  maidens  for  the  needed  "  mother 
for  Susan  Bradfield's  child'en,"  that  Bradfield 
himself  had  first  reflected  with  perfected  certi- 
tude :  "  The  hole  in  my  heart  is  there  yet — jest 
ez  big  an'  ez  holler  ez  the  day  pore  Susan  was 
buried — an'  the  only  livin'  woman  thet  can  ever 
fill  it  to  overfiowin'  is  Mis'  Carroll.  She  knowed 
Susan  an'  Susan's  ways  —  an'  Susan's  child'en. 
An'  she  knows  me."  So  the  reflection  proceed- 
ed. "  Yas,  an'  she  knows  me — maybe  she  hnoivs 
me  too  well.  Ef  they's  any  trouble,  it  '11  be 
that." 

The  years    of   intimate   friendship   had   not 


142  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

passed,  indeed,  without  Bradfield's  realizing  that 
certain  qualities  in  himself  had  fallen  under  the 
ban  of  Mrs.  Carroll's  disapproval.  True,  he  and 
she  had  been  as  different  persons  then,  and  yet, 
after  all,  they  were  the  same.  The  widow  Car- 
roll, albeit  she  was  thirty-seven  years  old,  and 
"the  mother  o'  five,"  was  a  pretty  woman.  She 
was  one  of  those  pretty  women  who,  though  never 
threatened  with  great  beaut}7,  being  made  on 
too  chubby  a  pattern,  seem  to  possess  in  healthy 
fulness  all  the  womanly  charms  incident  to 
every  passing  stage  in  life.  She  was  a  flower 
always  in  process  of  bloom  —  a  woman  of  dim- 
ples, but  whose  dimples  went  to  grace  a  smile  or 
dissipate  a  frown  rather  than  to  count  as  dim- 
ples, mere  physical  incidents.  Her  crisp  hair,  a 
coppery  auburn  in  hue,  commonly  called  red, 
was  full  of  fine  lights  and  color — such  hair  as 
is  at  once  the  glory  and  the  despair  of  the  village 
poet,  who  recklessly  uses  up  shimmer  and  glimmer 
in  a  first  couplet,  only  to  be  confronted  with 
gleam  and  slieen,  that,  with  fair  promise  of  affil- 
iation, stubbornly  refuse  to  lend  themselves  to 
his  poetic  scheme.  There  is  the  red  hair  that 
smiles,  and  the  red  hair  that  scolds  and  is  capa- 
ble of  profanity.  One  kind  reflects  light  and 
warmth,  the  other  burns.  Mary  Carroll's  was  of 
the  smiling  sort. 


THE   DIVIDING-FENCE  143 

Although  Bradfield  had  felt  the  radiant  glory 
of  the  widow's  head  as  he  often  viewed  it  in 
the  morning  sun  from  his  side  of  the  fence,  and 
had  more  than  once  compared  it  to  her  shining 
copper  kettle  inverted  on  the  shed,  to  the  dis- 
advantage of  the  gleaming  metal,  he  had  sum- 
marily denounced  such  thonghts  not  only  as 
unbecoming  his  crepe,  but  as  being  of  a  nature 
"to  nachelly  disgust  sech  a  sensible  mother  o' 
child'en  ez  Mis'  Carroll,  ef  she'd  even  s'picioned 
sech  a  thing." 

Just  how  or  when  Bradfield  had  finally  de- 
clared his  mind  not  even  the  writer  of  these 
annals  professes  to  know.  But  there  is  evidence 
that  the  arguments  which  elicited  the  following 
somewhat  lengthy  response  from  the  widow  were 
not  his  first  words  on  the  subject.  Bradfield  was 
standing  on  his  side  the  fence  down  in  the  rear 
garden  :  Mrs.  Carroll  on  her  side. 

"Yas,"  she  spoke  with  hesitation  —  "yas,  I 
know  it's  jest  ez  you  say,  Mr.  Bradfield.  The 
best  pickets  in  this  dividin'-fence  'd  be  a-plenty 
to  patch  up  the  outside  fences  of  both  our  yards 
with ;  an'  one  o'  the  two  front  gates  could  be 
took  out  an'  put  in  where  the  back  gate  on  my 
side  is  rotted  out ;  an'  ez  you  say,  one  kitchen 
an'  one  cook  'd  do  where  it  takes  two  now,  an' — 
an'  of  co'se  our  houses  do  set  so  close-t  together 


144  IN"   SIMPKINSVILLE 

thet  we  could  easy,  ez  you  say,  jest  roof  over  the 
space  between  'em  an'  make  it  into  a  good  wide 
hall,  an' — an'  of  co'se  our  child'en  do,  ez  you 
say,  ez  good  ez  live  together  ez  it  is,  an' — but — " 
She  knit  her  brow  and  hesitated. 

"And  is  a  heap  purtier  word  'n  what  but  is, 
Mis'  Carroll." 

Bradfield  chuckled  nervously  as  he  leaned 
forward  towards  her,  his  elbows  resting  upon 
the  ledge  of  the  dividing-fence  between  them  as 
he  spoke. 

The  widow  laughed.  "Yas,  I  know  it  is, 
but — "  She  colored.  "I  declare,  I  didn't  lay 
out  to  say  but  so  soon  again,  but —  Well,  I  do 
declare  !" 

And  now  both  laughed. 

"Did  it  ever  strike  you,  Mis'  Carroll,"  Brad- 
field  resumed,  presently — "did  it  ever  strike 
you  ez  funny  thet  whoever  planted  them  trees 
down  yo'  front  walk  an'  down  mine  should  o' 
been  so  opposite  an'  similar  minded  ez  to  set  a 
row  o'  silver-poplars  down  the  lef  side  o'  my 
walk  an'  down  the  right  side  o'  yoze,  so's  ef  we 
was  ever  minded  to  cut  out  the  middle  rows  o' 
arbor-vitaes  and  cedars  (which  are  too  much 
alike  an'  too  different  to  agree  side  by  side  any- 
way), we  could  have  a  broad  av'nue  o'  silver- 
poplars  clean  down  f'om  the  house  to  the  front 


THE   DIVIDING-FENCE  145 

gate  ?  See  ?"  He  pointed  first  to  the  space  be- 
tween the  two  houses,  and  then  to  the  fence. 
"Of  co'se,  the  new  po'ch,  now,  it  'd  projec' 
out  in  the  middle-centre  o'  the  av'nue,  too.  An' 
I  was  thinkin'  it  'd  be  purty,  maybe,  to  have  a 
high  cornish  'round  it,  like  that  'n  on  the  new 
school-house,  on'y  higher  an'  mo'  notched,  ef 
you  say  so.  An'  the  drive  up  the  av'nue,  it 
could  be  laid  either  in  shell  or  brick,  jest  ez  you 
say — or  maybe  gravel.  Why,  it  looks  to  me  ez 
ef,  ef  we  was  to  th'ow  the  two  houses  into  one 
that  -  a  -  way,  we'd  have  what  I'd  call  a  resi- 
dence— that's  what  we  would.  An'  the  money 
we'd  save  in  a  year,  j'inin'  the  two  households, 
'd  pay  for  the  improvements,  too." 

"Yas,  I  reckon  'twould,  Mr.  Bradfield,  ef 
'twas  handled  economical.  I  reckon  'twould — 
but —  Ain't  that  a  yaller  tomater  down  there 
in  yo'  tomater-patch  ?  I  didn't  know  you  plant- 
ed yallers." 

"  No,  I  haven't.  That  there's  a  squash  flower, 
I  vow,  with  two  bees  in  it  this  minute.  Them 
simlins  're  nachel  gadders.  The  root  o'  that  'n  is 
clair  'crost  the  walk.  They  don't  no  mo'  hesi- 
tate to  go  where  they  ain't  invited  an'  to  lay 
their  young  ones  in  the  laps  of  anything  thet  '11 
hold  'em  than — " 

"Than  some  folks  do,  I  reckon." 
10 


146  IN    SIMPKIXSVILLE 

Bradfield's  eyes  searched  her  face  suspicious- 
ly. "Ma-am?"  The  word  was  long  drawn 
out. 

"No  insinuation  intended,  Mr.  Bradfield,  of 
co'se.  I  was  only  thinkin'  o'  the  way  Sally  Ann 
Brooks  sends  her  young  ones  roun'  town  to  spen' 
the  day  to  get  shet  of  'em,  'stid  of — " 

"Oh,  I  see!  Reckon  I'll  plant  bush-squash 
myself  after  this.  I  don't  want  nothin'  meander- 
in'  roun'  my  garden  thet  makes  sech  a  pore 
figger  o'  speech  ez  a  simlin  do.  Th'  ain't  nothin' 
too  low  down  an'  common  for  'em  to  mix  with  ef 
they  git  a  half  a  chance,  f'om  a  punkin  even 
down  to  a  dipper-gourd.  An'  I  wouldn't  trust 
'em  too  near  a  wash-rag  vine  an'  leave  off  watch- 
in'  'em,  they're  that  p'omiscuyus-minded." 

"I  s'pose,  Mr.  Bradfield,  the  bush-squash  does 
live,  ez  Elder  Billins  says,  a  mo'  virtuous  life, 
stayin'  home  an'  jest  having  a  lapful  o'  reg'lar 
young  bush-squashes,  every  one  saucer  -  shaped 
an'  scalloped  'roun'  the  edges,  same  ez  all  re- 
spectable Christian  families  should  do.  An' 
talkin'  o'  squashes,  I'd  say  thet  maybe  Elder 
Billins  was  right  when  he  remarked  thet  bush- 
squashes  was  mo'  femmi'jje-minded  'n  what  run- 
ners was." 

"Well,"  Bradfield  chuckled,  "I'll  promise 
you,  ef  you'll  say  the  word,  to  take  down  this 


THE   DIVIDING-FENCE  147 

useless  fence,  they  sha'n't  be  a  runnin'-squash 
allowed  inside  our  garden." 

"  Th'  ain't  no  hurry  about  that,  I  reckon,  Mr. 
Bradfield,"  she  answered,  playfully.  "  An'  I 
mus'  be  goin'  up  to  the  house  now.  I  jest 
stepped  down  to  see  ef  my  yallers  was  colorin'. 
I'm  goin'  to  start  preserviu'  to-morrer.  Better 
send  yore  Tom  over  an'  let  me  look  at  his  throat 
again  to-day.  You  see,  he  can't  gargle,  an'  it's 
jest  ez  well  to  ward  off  so'e  throat  for  sech 
child'en.     Good-mornin',  Mr.  Bradfield." 

Instead  of  answering,  Bradfield  followed  be- 
side her  on  his  side  the  fence. 

"An'  /  come  down  here,  Mis'  Carroll,"  he 
resumed,  directly  —  "I  come  down,  seem'  you 
here,  and  hopin'  maybe  to  dis-cuss  things  a  little. 
This  dividin'-fence,  now ;  it's  made  out  o'  good- 
heart  lumber,  every  picket  an'  post,  an'  our  out- 
side pickets  're  worm-et  tur'ble — both  yoze  an' 
mine.  Ef  we  could  jest  to  say  th'ow  these  two 
garden  patches  into  one —  I've  got  a  good 
sparrer-grass  bed  on  my  side,  ez  you  see,  an' 
you're  jest  a-^rq/'ec'in'  to  start  another  one,  which 
you  needn't  do  ;  an'  yore  butter-bean  arbor  is  ez 
stiddy  ez  the  day  it  was  put  up,  an'  mine  is  about 
ez  ramshackled  ez  they  get ;  an'  both  the  spar- 
rer-grass bed  an'  the  arbor  're  big  enough  for 
the  two  families — or  for  one,  I  mean — twice-t  ez 


148  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

big  ez  either,  which  ours  would  pre-cize-ly  be. 
Since  it's  took  possession  of  my  mind,  Mis' 
Carroll,  it's  astonishin'  how  the  surpluses  on 
one  side  o'  the  fence  do  seem  to  match  the  lacks 
on  the  other.  An'  the  fence  itself,  for  it  to  be 
so  well  worth  takin'  down,  why,  it  looks  to  me 
like  flyiii'  in  the  face  o'  Prov-i-dence  to  hold  out 
against  so  many  hints  to  do  a  special  thing." 

"  Well,  maybe  it  is,  Mr.  Bradfield,  but  I 
haven't  been  given  the  clair  sight  to  see  it  that- 
a-way — yet.  The  way  /  look  at  it,  that  fence 
is  strong  enough  to  do  good  service  where  it  is 
for  some  time  to  come.  You  see,  it  'd  take  a 
mighty  wide  oil-cloth  to  cover  that  middle  hall 
you're  a-projec'in.'  to  let  in  'twixt  the  two  houses 
— an'  a  front  hall  'thout  oil-cloth  I  wouldn't  have 
— noway.     But  maybe  I'm  worldly  minded." 

"  Cert'n'y  not.  Oil-cloth  pays  for  itself  over 
an'  over  ag'in  ef  it's  kep'  rubbed  up  an'  varnished 
occasional.  We  might  get  some  o'  the  drum- 
mers to  fetch  us  some  samples,  jest  to  look 
over." 

The  widow  laughed.  "  Yas,  I  can  see  either 
you  or  me  lookin'  over  any  house-furnishin'  sam- 
ples, now  !  Why,  Simpkinsville  wouldn't  hold 
the  talk.  I  do  declare  ef  there  ain't  Elder 
Billins  a-comin'  this  way  'crost  my  yard  now, 
ez  I  live  !    How  did  he  manage  to  tie  up  'thout 


THE   DIVIDING-FENCE  149 

me  seein'  'im,  I  wonder  ?  Did  you  see  'im 
stop  ?" 

"  Yas,  I  did — an'  befo'  I  saw  'im  I  felt  'im. 
I  knowed  somebody  was  comin'  to  pester  my  sight, 
an'  I  wondered  who  it  was  befo'  he  come  into 
the  road.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  they's 
somethin'  in  the  way  a  ol'  bachelor  carries  'isself 
thet  tantalizes  me,  'special  when  I  see  'im  try  to 
wait  on  a  woman  thet  can't  see  'im  ez  redic'lous 
ez  I  see  'im.  A  ol',  dried-up,  singular  number, 
mascu/i'we  gender  don't  know  no  mo'  what  '11 
tickle  a  woman's  fancy  'n  one  o'  them  sca'crows 
in  my  pea-patch  out  yonder.  An'  yet  they  'ain't 
got  the  settled  mind  thet  a  sca'crow  has — to  stay 
peaceable  in  that  station  of  life  unto  which  it 
has  pleased  God  to  call  'em." 

The  widow  laughed  merrily.  "  You  better 
hursh,  Mr.  Brad  field.  Elder  Billins  may  be 
slow  some  ways,  but  his  ears  don't  set  out  the 
way  they  do  for  nothin'.  What's  that  he's  a-fetch- 
in'  ?" 

"  Don't  know  ez  I  know  exac'ly.  I  see  he  is 
loaded  up." 

"  I  wonder  for  goodness'  sakes,  what  he's 
a-fetchin'  ? 

"  Howdy,  Elder !"  she  called  out  cheerily  now. 
"Come  right  along!  I  won't  go  to  meet  you, 
'cause  I  know  you  an'  Mr.  Bradfield  '11  want  to 


150  1ST   SIMPKHSTSVILLE 

shake  hands  over  the  fence."  She  cast  a  mis- 
chievous glance  at  Bradfield  as  she  advanced  a 
single  step  towards  Billins. 

"  Excuse  my  hands,  please,  Elder.  Tyin'  up 
them  soggy  tomater  bushes  has  greened  'em  so 
th'  ain't  fit  to  offer  you — but  howdy  !  Ef  he  ain't 
gone  an'  done  it,  spite  of  me  !  Made  me  anoth- 
er perfectly  lovely  hanging-basket !"  Her  eyes 
beamed  as  a  child's  over  a  new  toy  as  Billins 
set  a  tall  rustic  structure  down  before  her. 

"  Jest  look,  Mr.  Bradfield,"  she  continued, 
raising  it  for  inspection.  "  I  do  declare,  Elder, 
how  you  manage  to  twis'  these  roots  in  an'  out 
I  don't  know.  'Tain't  made  on  the  same  plan  ez 
the  chair,  either.  That  chair  you  set  in,  Mr. 
Bradfield,  the  other  day  when  you  come  up  on 
my  po'ch  to  fetch  the  onion  sets,  Elder  Billins 
made  me  that ;  an'  for  a  chair  to  ease  a  tired 
back,  or  jest  to  set  in  an'  study  braid in'  pat- 
terns, it's  the  most  accommodatin'  chair  a  per- 
son ever  did  set  in.  Mr.  Bradfield  said  'isself, 
Elder,  thet  he  never  had  set  in  a  chair  thet 
yielded  to  his  needs  like  it  did." 

"  But  I  was  figgerin'  on  a  man's  idee  of  a 
easy-settin'  chair,"  Bradfield  retorted.  "I'd  o' 
thought  you'd  'a'  made  a  lady  a  cushioned  chair, 
Billins,  with  side-rockers  to  it,  an'  maybe  a  mov- 
able foot-rest,  or  even  a  tnne-playin'  seat  in  it." 


THE    DIVIDING-FEXCE  151 

"So  I  would  ef  she'd  a-sarid  the  word,  but  when 
a  lady  says  rustics,  it's  rustics  to  me,  ef  I  have 
to  dig  up  all  the  crooked  roots  in  the  county." 

The  discussion  of  the  rustic  basket  had  so 
engaged  their  attention  that  the  men  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  a  formal  greeting,  but  now,  when 
the  widow  presented  her  own  hand  a  second  time 
to  Billins,  thanking  him  for  his  gift,  by  the  faint- 
est movement  of  the  wrist  and  an  inclination  of 
the  head  towards  the  fence,  she  virtually  passed 
him  over  to  Bradfield. 

"  Howdy,  Eben  !  Hope  I  see  you  well."  Bil- 
lins heartily  extended  his  hand  quite  over  the 
fence. 

Bradfield  had  never  heard  of  the  fashionable 
lofty  salutation  in  mid-air,  but  it  was  with  pre- 
cisely this  inane  shoulder-high  denial  of  cordial- 
ity that  he  changed  the  friendly  impulse  of  the 
proffered  hand  from  a  hearty  downward  shake 
to  a  quick  lateral  movement  quite  even  with  the 
top  of  the  pickets. 

"  I'm  toler'ble  peart,  thanky,  Elder,"  he 
drawled.  "  How's  yoreself  ?  You  seem  to  be 
renewin'  yo'  youth  like  the  eagle." 

"  Well,  Eben,  ef  you  count  yo'self  a  eagle,  I 
ain't  perpared  to  dispute  that,"  was  the  Elder's 
humorous  reply.  And  then  he  added,  more 
seriously,  "How's  the  lambs,  Eben  ?" 


152  IN  8IMPKISTSVILLE 

"The  kids?  Oh,  they're  party  toler'ble 
frisky,  thanky.  Eeckon  to  sech  ez  you  they'd 
seem  mo'  like  roa'in'  lions  'n  lambs.  They  do 
say  thet  folks  thet  roam  single  all  their  lives 
forgits  they  ever  was  kids  theirselves." 

"  Well,  Eben,  sence  you  mention  it,  I  reckon 
sech  of  us  ez  are  strivin'  to  stand  with  the  slieep 
at  the  jedgment  'd  rather  take  their  chances 
startin'  ez  a  lamb.  Ef  a  person  starts  out  ez  a 
kid,  seem  to  me  the  best  he  can  hope  to  do  'd  be 
to  grow  into  a  goat,  which  is  classed  ez  purty 
pore  cattle  both  here  an'  hereafter.  Yore  dear 
child'en  're  lambs,  Eben — lambs  o'  the  Lord's 
fold,  an'  I  hate  to  hear  you  mis-designate  'em 
that-a-way." 

Elder  Billins  spoke  with  the  religious  voice — 
the  same  that  was  wont  to  say  on  frequent  occa- 
sion, "  Brother  Bradfield,  won't  you  lead  in 
prayer  ?"  Bradfield  had  often  led  in  prayer  by 
its  mild  invitation,  and  he  recognized  it  as  a 
force  commanding  respect.  For  a  moment,  un- 
der its  benign  influence,  he  was  somewhat  molli- 
fied, and  was  opening  his  lips  for  such  concilia- 
tory speech  as  he  could  command,  when  Billins 
remarked,  with  an  insinuating  smile  : 

"  I  s'pose  you  an'  Mis'  Carroll  'ye  been  swap- 
pin'  confidences  about  garden-truck  this  heav- 
enly mornin'.     Yon  seem  to  have  the  first  flower 


THE   DIVIDING-FENCE  153 

on  yo'  side,  Eben.     I  see  some  sort  o'  blossom 
down  behind  you  there." 

"  Yas ;  th'  ain't  much  internum'  in  the  gar- 
dens yet.  That  one  flower  with  a  couple  o'  bees 
a-buzzin'  round  it  is  about  the  only,  to  say,  in- 
terim' thing  in  sight — that  is  to  say,  for 
beauty." 

Billins  chuckled.  "Well,  I  declare,  Eben 
Bradfield,  seem  to  me  you  described  more'n  you 
set  out  to  describe  that  time.  Ef  my  eyes  don't 
deceive  me,  I  see  a-nother  flower  with  two  more 
bees  a-buzzin'  round  it."  He  glanced  at  the 
widow,  and  then  at  Bradfield. 

"  Don't  know  ez  I  see  that,  Elder — eggsac'ly — 
that  is,  ez  to  the  bees." 

"  You  don't,  don't  you  ?  Spell  Bradfield,  an' 
then  spell  Billins.  Oho  !  You  see  it  now,  don't 
you  ?  Ef  we  ain't  two  B's,  what  'd  you  say  we 
was  ?" 

Bradfield  cleared  his  throat.  "Seem  to  me, 
Elder,  I'd  be  purty  hard  pushed  for  com-pli- 
ments  'fore  I'd  compare  a  lady  to  a  squash 
flower." 

"  Well,  Eben,  that  ain't  exac'ly  my  fault,  the 
way  I  look  at  it.  I  supplied  the  com-pli-ment, 
an'  you  supplied  the  flower.  I  jest  took  the 
best  you  had,  which,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the 
brightest  thing  on  the  face  o'  the  lan'scape — 


154  IN    SIMPKINSVILLE 

excepting   of  co'se — "    He  lifted   his  hat  and 
bowed  to  the  widow. 

Bradfield  colored  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair  as 
he  said,  smiling  defiantly  :  "  Them  wasn't  sting- 
in'-bees  around  that  simlin  flower,  Elder.  They 
was  jest  these  innercent  white-faced  buzzers. 
Look  out  thet  you  don't  spile  yo'  figger  o'  speech 
by  strikin'  too  hard.  That's  the  second  stroke 
o'  el-o-quence  thet's  been  struck  off  from  that 
one  flower  to-day,  an'  I've  had  to  dodge  both 
times,  seem  like.  Eeckon  I'll  dodge  now,  shore 
enough,  an'  bid  you  both  good-mornin'.  Elder 
didn't  come  to  pay  me  a  visit,  noways,  an'  I  think 
I  kuow  when  three's  a  crowd."  And  Bradfield, 
as  fretful  as  a  spoiled  boy,  turned  across  his  own 
garden  and  left  them. 

"  Well,  I  must  say,  I'm  dis-gust-ed  !"  he  said, 
audibly,  as  soon  as  he  dared.  " More'n  dis-gust- 
ed  !  It's  enough  to  make  a  person  sick  to  his 
stummick  !  The  idee  of  a  ol'  white-haired  ex- 
horter  like  Elder  Billins  whisperin'  that  he'd 
wove  her  name  into  a  rustic  basket  with  a  mot- 
ter  throwed  in  !  Seem  like  she'd  o'  laughed  right 
out  in  his  face.  Lordy,  but  it's  that  sickenin' ! 
I  do  thank  the  Lord  I'm  a  perfessin'  Christian 
or  I'd  swear — dog-gone  ef  I  wouldn't !" 

When  he  had  reached  his  own  porch,  Brad- 


THE    DIVIDING-FENCE  155 

field  drew  a  chair  to  its  remote  end  and  sat 
down.  "  The  idee  !"  he  exclaimed  as  he  bal- 
anced his  body  back  against  the  wall,  extending 
his  feet  over  the  banisters.  "  The  idee  o'  him 
havin'  mo'  cheek  'n  what  I've  got !  Here  I  'ain't 
dared  to  more  'n  broach  things  in  a  business  wa}r, 
an',  shore's  I'm  alive,  that  ol'  bone  's  a-courtin' 
'er  outspoken." 

And  now,  in  a  fashion  entirely  at  variance 
with  his  late  expressions,  Brad  field's  secret 
thoughts  took  shape.  "Wonder  ef  any  other 
woman  ever  did  have  sech  a  head,  anyhow  ? 
The  way  them  curls  snug  up  to  her  neck — 
Lordy,  but  it  all  but  takes  my  breath  away. 
An'  as  for  tad — an1  cleverness — well,  they  never 
was  sech  another  woman,  I  know.  Ef  she  's'pi- 
cioned  what  a  blame  ejiot  I  am  about  her,  she 
wouldn't  have  no  mo'  respec'  for  me  'n  nothin'. 
But  I  know  how  to  tackle  'er,  that  I  do  !  She's 
a  reg'lar  business  thorough-goer,  she  is,  an'  the 
man  thet  gets  her,  he's  got  to  prove  the  com- 
mon-sense o'  the  thing — that's  what  he's  got  to 
do.  The  idee  o'  hangin'-baskets  an'  motters  to 
a  person  o'her  sense — an'  she  the  mother  o'five  ! 
Don't  b'lieve  I  ever  seen  'er  yet — at  home — 'thout 
a  bunch  o'  keys  hangin'  to  'er  belt,  or  a  thimble 
on ;  an'  ez  to  aprons —  To  me  a  apron  is  a 
thing  thet  sets  off  a  purty  woman,  an'  jest  nach- 


15G  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

elly  dis-figgers  a  ugly  one— not  to  mention  her 
dis-figgerin'  it." 

He  chuckled,  drew  down  his  feet,  and  began 
walking  up  and  down  his  porch.  "The  idee  o' 
me  ca'culatin'  to  a  cent  what  we  could  save  by 
j'inin'  interests,  an',  come  down  to  the  truth,  Fd 
spend  the  last  cent  I've  got  to  get  'er.  But  she 
mustn't  know  it.  Oh  no,  she  mustn't  know  it." 
Pausing  here  at  the  end  of  the  porch,  he  cast 
his  eyes  down  towards  the  rear  lot,  taking  in  in 
his  survey  a  view  of  both  gardens.  "  Wonder 
where  those  children  o'  mine  have  went  to  ?" 
he  continued,  mentally.  "  Over  in  her  barn,  I'll 
venture,  the  last  one  of  'em,  playin'  with  hers, 
'ceptin'  her  Joe,  an'  I'll  lay  he's  with  my  Tom, 
sailin'  shingle  boats  down  in  my  goose-pond, 

'•'Tis  funny,  come  to  think  of  it,  for  me  to 
have  a  goose-pond  an'  for  her  to  have  the  geese. 
We  ain't  to  say  duplicated  on  nothin',  'less  'n 
'tis  child'en,  an'  we're  so  pre-cize-ly  matched  in 
them  thet — well,  it's  comical,  that's  what  it  is. 
Reckon,  after  we  was  married  awhile,  they  'd 
come  so  nachel  thet,  takin'  'em  hit  an'  miss,  we 
wouldn't  know  no  difference  hardly.  One  thing 
shore,  the  day  she  gives  her  solemn  consent  to 
mother  mine,  I'll  start  a-fatherin'  hers  jest  ez 
conscientious  ez  I  know  how." 

He  resumed  his  promenade,  his  irregular  step 


THE   DIVIDING-FENCE  157 

keeping  pace  with  his  musings.  "I  never  have 
gone  over  to  set  of  a  evening  yet.  I  would  V 
went  sev'al  nights,  but  I'm  'feerd  she  might 
th'ow  out  hints  about  motherless  child'en  lef  to 
their  devious  ways,  or  some  other  Scriptu'al  in- 
sinuation. S'pose  I'd  Tiaf  to  say  at  home  where 
I  was  goin'.  Ef  I  didn't,  Tiers  would  tell  mine 
first  thing  nex'  mornin'.  I  would  'a'  went  in  to 
set  awhile  Sunday  night  when  we  walked  home 
f'om  church,  ef  she'd  'a' — well,  maybe  it  would 
o'  seemed  too  pointed  to  ask  me.  It's  true  I 
did  have  my  little  Mamie  asleep  'crost  my 
shoulder,  but  I  could  'a'  laid  her  on  the  parlor 
sofy  till  I'd  got  ready  to  go  home.  Strange  how 
that  baby  o'  mine  has  took  sech  a  notion  to  go  to 
church — an'  drops  off  to  sleep  du'in'  the  first 
prayer  every  time.  Ef  it  was  anywhere  else  I 
mightn't  humor  her.  Somehow,  a  baby  sleepin' 
on  a  person's  shoulder  is  a  hind'rance  to  a  per- 
son— in  some  things.  But  of  co'se  any  signs  of 
early  piety  should  be  encouraged,  though  I 
doubt  how  much  o'  the  gospel  she  gets — at 
three — 'pecial  when  she's  sno'ein'.  There  goes  oF 
Billins  now — at  last — pore  ol'  ejiot  thet  he  is  ! 
Ef  he  didn't  disgust  me  so  I'd  laugh  right  out." 

If  the  widow  bore  about  with  her  any  con- 
sciousness of  the  strictly  business-like  romance 


158  IX    SIMPKINSYILLE 

that  was  throwing  its  tendrils  over  the  divid- 
ing-fence between  her  home  and  her  neighbor's 
— a  romance  as  devoid  of  visible  leaf  or  blos- 
som as  the  vermicelli-like  love-vine  that  spread 
its  yellow  tangle  over  certain  vine-clad  sections 
of  it — she  gave  no  sign  of  such  consciousness 
by  the  slightest  deviation  from  her  ordinary 
routine. 

Nothing  was  forgotten  in  her  well  -  ordered 
household,  though  a  close  observer  might  have 
suspected  a  sort  of  fierce  thoroughness  in  all 
she  did.  It  was  only  after  the  children  were 
all  snugly  put  to  bed  that  night  that  she  took 
one  from  the  row  of  daguerreotypes  which 
stood  open  upon  her  high  parlor  mantel,  and, 
bringing  it  to  her  bedroom  lamp,  scanned  it 
closely. 

"Funny  to  think  how  a  man  can  change  so," 
she  said,  audibly,  as  if  addressing  the  picture, 
which  she  turned  from  side  to  side,  viewing  it  at 
one  angle  and  another.  "  When  Eben  Bradfield 
an'  Susan  had  this  picture  took  they  wasn't  a 
more  generous-handed  husband  in  the  State  'n 
what  he  was.  Susan  paid  five  dollars  to  have 
her  hair  braided  that-a-way  while  she  was  down 
in  New  'Leans,  a  hundred  and  fifty  plat'.  An' 
Eben  was  tickled  to  have  her  pay  it,  too.  She 
had  this  limpy  flat  hair  thet  all  runs  to  len'th 


THE    DIVIDING-FENCE  159 

an'  ain't  fittin'  for  nothin'  else  but  to  braid. 
An'  that  black  polonay  she's  got  on,  it  was  fo' 
dollars  a  yard  ;  'n'  he  bought  her  that  gold  tas- 
selled  watch-chain  that  trip  too,  an'  them  fingered 
mits.  An'  chey  sat  in  whole  plush  curtained  off 
sections  at  the  theatre,  too,  an'  boa'ded  at  the 
St.  Charles  Hotel  at  fo'  dollars  a  day  apiece. 
So  they  bragged  when  they  come  home.  I  never 
did  see  such  a  waste  o'  money,  an'  I  didn't  hesi- 
tate to  say  so,  neither.  It  used  to  do  me  good 
them  days  to  give  her  an'  Eben  a  'casional  rap 
over  the  knuckles  for  their  extravagance.  Pore 
Susan  was  beginnin'  to  look  mighty  peaked  an' 
consumpted,  even  in  this,  picture.  Death  was 
on  'er  then,  I  reckon." 

Hesitating  here,  she  wiped  the  face  of  the 
picture  and  studied  it  in  silence,  but  her 
thoughts  fairly  flew,  as  she  thus  mentally  re- 
viewed the  situation  : 

"But  to  think  of  Eben  Bradfield  spendin' 
money  like  water  the  way  he  done  for  Susan, 
an'  I  knowin'  it  —  an'  he  Tenowin'  I  knoiv  it — 
an'  then  layin'  off  to  stint  me  the  way  he  does ! 

"I  don't  doubt  he  spoke  the  word  to  save 
paper  an'  ink.  Eben  is  a  handsome  man,  even 
here,  with  his  hen-pecked  face  an'  chin  whiskers 
on,  an'  I  used  to  think  he  was  a  good  one,  an'  I 
won't  say  he  ain't ;  but  he  is  shorely  changed— 


160  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

sadly  changed.  Du'in'  the  month  thet  he's 
showed  signs  o'  keepin'  comp'ny  with  me  — 
which  he  has  accJiilly  asked  me  to  marry  him. — 
he  'ain't  said  the  first  word  sech  ez  you'd  expect 
of  a  co'tin'  widower,  ezceptin'  one.  The  day  he 
remarked  thet  he  felt  ez  young  ez  he  ever  did, 
thinks  I  to  myself,  '  Now  you're  comin'  to  !'  An' 
I  fully  expected  the  nex'  word  to  be  accordin' 
to  that  beginnin'.  But  'stid  o'  that,  what  does 
he  say  but  fYore  Rosie's  outgrowed  dresses  'd 
come  in  handy  for  my  Emma,  don't  you  reckon  ? 
She's  jest  about  a  hem  or  a  couple  o'  tucks  taller 
'n  what  Emma  is.'  I  do  declare,  Eben  Brad- 
field,  lookin'  at  you  here  in  this  picture  standin' 
behind  Susan's  chair,  an'  rememberin'  how  you 
squandered  money  on  her,  I  feel  that  disgusted! 
Ef  it  was  anybody  thet  I  had  less  respec'  for,  I 
wouldn't  care. 

"Well,  th'  ain't  no  use  losin'  sleep  over  a 
man's  meanness,  an'  it's  ten  o'clock  now,"  she 
continued  audibly,  as  she  closed  the  picture 
with  a  snap  and  began  taking  down  her  hair, 
and  as  she  deftly  manipulated  the  shimmering 
braids,  her  thoughts  turned  inward  upon  her- 
self. "Looks  like  ez  ef  a  woman  oughtn't  to 
be  lonesome  with  a  houseful  o'  child'en  sech  ez 
I've  got,"  so  the  introspection  began,  "an'  I 
wasn't  lonesome  tell  Eben  Bradfield  set  me  to 


THE   DIVIDING-FENCE  161 

thinkin'.  Ef  lonely  people  could  only  keep  clair 
o'  thinking  they'd  do  very  well.  But  I  do  think 
a  man  with  a  whole  lot  o'  growin'  child'en  on 
his  hands  is  a  pitiful  sight.  'T wasn't  never  in- 
tended. I  reckon  it's  a  funny  thing  for  me  to 
say,  even  to  myself,  but  ef  I  had  all  the  child'en 
under  one  roof  they'd  be  less  care  to  me  'n  what 
they  are  now — not  thet  I'd  marry  that  close-fisted 
Eben  Bradfield — to  save  his  life!  But  th'  ain't 
a  night  thet  I  put  mine  to  bed  but  I  wonder  how 
his  are  gettin'  on — maybe  po'  little  Mamie  an' 
Sudie  gettin'  their  nigh'-gownds  hind  part  befo' 
or  mixed — Mamie  treadin'  on  hers,  an'  Sudie's 
up  to  her  knees — an'  like  ez  not  hangin'  open 
at  the  neck.  Susan  always  did  work  her  but- 
ton-holes too  big  for  her  buttons.  Some  women 
're  constitutionally  that-a-way  by  nature.  Of 
co'se  I  couldn't  never  fall  in  love  again.  It  'd 
be  childish.  But  ef  Eben  Bradfield  was  half 
like  he  used  to  be,  an'  ef  he  cared  a  quarter  ez 
much  for  me  ez  Elder  Billins  does,  I'd  let  him 
take  down  that  dividin'-fence  in  a  minute,  an' 
do  my  best  for  Susan's  child'en. 

"  The  first  thing  I'd  do  'd  be  to  shorten  their 
dress  waists.  Pore  little  Sudie  !  I've  seen  her 
set  down  sudden  an'  set  clair  over  the  belt,  an' 
not  be  able  to  rise.  An'  she  left  'em  so  many, 
an'  'lowed  for  so  much  growth  !  They  never  will 
11 


162  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

wear  out.  Sometimes  I  think  that's  one  reason 
her  child'en  don't  grow  faster  'n  they  do.  Jest 
one  sight  o'  them  big  clo'es  is  enough  to  discour- 
age a  child  out  of  its  growth. 

"It's  funny — the  spite  Eben  seems  to  have 
against  Elder  Billins.  Maybe  he  reelizes  thet 
Elder  is  mo'  gifted  in  speech  'n  what  he  is.  Ef 
I  ever  should  make  up  my  mind  to  marry  Elder 
Billins  it  'd  be  a  edjucation  to  my  child'en,  jest 
a-livin'  with  'im  an'  hearin'  'im  strike  off  dig- 
gers o'  speech  off-hand.  Ef  he  jest  wouldn't 
slit  his  boots  over  his  bunions  !  It's  a  little 
thing,  but — 

"An'  then,  somehow,  I  don't  know  ez  I  care 
for  a  prayer-meetin'  voice  for  all  purposes.  But, 
of  co'se,  hearin'  it  all  the  time  might  encourage 
my  child'en  to  lead  religious  lives.  I  reckon  the 
truth  is  it  'd  be  mo'  to  my  child'en's  interests  to 
think  about  marryin'  Elder  Billins,  an'  mo'  for 
pore  Susan's  child'en's  good  ef  I  was  to  take 
Eben  ;  an'  yet — " 

And  then  she  added  aloud,  with  a  yawn,  as 
she  turned  out  the  lamp. 

"Well,  it's  good  I  don't  haf  to  decide  to- 
night." 


THE  MIDDLE  HALL 

A    SEQUEL    TO    "THE    DIVIDING  -  FEHCE 


THE  MIDDLE  HALL 


THE  dividing-fence  was  all  in  bloom.  Lady- 
bank  roses  overlapped  honeysuckle  vines 
over  long  sections  of  its  rough -hewn 
pickets,  while  woodbine  and  clematis  locked 
arms  for  the  passage  of  the  amorous  love-vine, 
that  lay  its  yellow  rings  in  tangled  masses  here 
and  there  according  to  its  own  sweet  will. 

The  atmosphere  was  teeming  with  the  odors  of 
romance,  musical  with  its  small  noises.  Pollen- 
dusted  bees  and  yellow-bellied  moths  —  those 
most  irresponsible  fathers  of  hybrid  blooms  and 
remote  floral  kinships — flitted  about  in  the  sun- 
shine, passed  and  repassed  in  mid-air  by  their 
rival  match  -  makers,  the  iridescent  humming- 
birds. And  there  were  nests — real  birds'-nests — 
in  the  vines  that  clambered  on  both  verandas, 
the  widow  Carroll's  and  that  of  her  neighbor, 
the  widower  Bradfield.  And  from  one  porch  to 
the  other  flitted  bee  and  bird  and  moth,  stopping 


166  IN   SIMPKIKSVILLE 

for  a  sip  or  a  brief  wing-rest  on  the  vine-clad 
fence,  while  the  flowers  on  either  side  responded 
to  their  amenities  in  answering  hues  and  friendly 
conformity. 

It  was  late  in  the  summer  afternoon,  and  the 
evening  twitterings  were  setting  in  in  a  lively 
chorus,  which,  to  the  casual  listener,  was  quite 
drowned  by  the  voices  of  children  who  played 
"tag"  or  "prisoners'  base"  down  in  the  front 
yards,  passing  at  will  from  one  to  the  other  by 
certain  loose  pickets  hidden  among  the  vines, 
known  to  the  small-fry  of  both  families. 

Bradfield  sat  alone  upon  his  porch  in  the 
shadows  of  the  foliage,  but  though  he  was  lis- 
tening he  heard  none  of  these  noises  of  nature. 
The  truth  was,  Bradfield  was  listening,  albeit 
with  no  eavesdropping  intention,  to  a  scarcely 
perceptible  hum  of  voices  in  the  corner  of  his 
neighbor's  porch.  The  widow  had  "  company," 
and  the  voice  that  came  to  Bradfield,  alternating 
with  hers,  was  one  he  knew. 

Elder  Billins  was  now  a  regular  visitor  at  the 
widow's  home,  always  presenting  himself  with  a 
flourish,  with  the  avowed  intention  of  paying  a 
formal  visit  —  a  thing  Bradfield  had  not  yet 
found  courage  to  do.  He  had  felt  sometimes 
that  if  he  could  just  get  out  of  sight  of  her 
house  to  "get  a  start,"  he  might  "make  a  break 


THE   MIDDLE   HALL  167 

for  her  gate,"  and  go  in.  Indeed,  he  did  once 
try  this,  and  found  such  momentum  in  the  ex- 
periment that  he  had  really  passed  his  own  gate, 
and  would  have  entered  hers,  had  not  the  whole 
drove  of  children  swooped  down  upon  him  with 
the  inquiry,  "  Where  you  goin'  ?  Where  you 
goin',  pop  ?"  to  which  he  had  quickly  replied  : 
"  Oh,  no  place !  Where  was  I  goin',  shore 
enough  ?"  And  so  he  had  turned  back,  only  to 
meet  Billins  riding  up  to  the  widow's  gate  with 
a  great  bouquet  of  flowers  in  his  hand. 

Bradfield  wouldn't  have  been  caught  offering 
her  a  leaf  or  flower  for  anything  in  the  world, 
unless,  indeed,  it  were  such  a  matter  as  a  bunch 
of  alder  flowers,  a  sprig  of  mint,  or  a  bunch  of 
mullein,  for  medicinal  uses. 

No  one  knew  what  Mrs.  Carroll's  attitude 
towards  Billins  was,  but  everybody  laughed  at 
him,  and  of  course  there  were  those  who  blamed 
her  for  accepting  his  attentions,  unless,  indeed, 
she  intended  to  marry  him — a  thing  that  such  as 
knew  her  best  were  morally  certain  she  would 
never  do. 

"  Mary  Carroll  jest  can't  help  likin'  to  have 
men  a-hangin'  'round  'er,  no  more'n  any  other 
woman  o'  her  colored  hair  can  help  it,"  was  the 
verdict,  compounded  equally  of  apology  and 
censure,  by  such  of  her  friends  as  were  manag- 


168  IN"   SIMPKINSVILLE 

ing  to  worry  along  through  life  fairly  well  with- 
out such  accessories.  But,  of  course,  they  had 
"  other  colored  hair"  ! 

If  Mrs.  Carroll's  main  pleasure  in  Billins's 
devotion  was  in  its  putting  Bradfield's  prosaic 
courtship  to  shame,  she  never  told  it. 

On  the  evening  with  which  this  chapter  opens 
we  have  seen  that  the  situation  was  typical  of 
the  real  condition  of  things — Bradfield  alone  on 
his  porch,  cogitating,  moody ;  Billins  talking 
with  the  widow  on  hers,  full  of  words  and  bom- 
bast ;  the  children  of  both  houses  playing,  within 
range  of  her  vision,  from  one  yard  to  the  other. 

Up  to  this  time  Bradfield  had  had  the  satis- 
faction of  knowing  that  although  Billins  was  a 
regular  visitor,  he  had  experienced  rather  "  hard 
luck"  in  having  scarcely  a  word  alone  with  his 
hostess. 

The  truth  was  that  Billins,  who  was  their  Sun- 
day-school superintendent,  was  a  great  favorite 
with  the  children,  and  when  on  his  presenting 
himself  the  little  Carrolls  and  Bradfields  would 
come  and,  drawing  up  chairs,  seat  themselves 
with  modest  company  manners  before  him,  he 
could  not  do  less  than  treat  them  cordially  ;  and, 
indeed,  more  than  once  the  entire  lot  had  mo- 
nopolized his  visit  wholly,  dutifully  volunteering 
to  recite  to  him  their  "golden  texts,"  catechism, 


THE   MIDDLE   HALL  169 

or  selected  hymns  for  the  following  Sunday's 
lesson.  And  for  different  reasons  neither  family 
was  ever  privately  reproved  by  its  respective  par- 
ent for  this  artless  intrusion. 

The  widow  rather  dreaded  the  unequivocal 
proposal  of  marriage  which  she  knew  was  immi- 
nent, as  it  would  end  the  affair ;  and  she  felt 
that  Bradfield  needed  that  it  should  continue, 
"under  his  very  eyes,"  for  the  present  at  least. 

Bradfield,  on  his  part,  was  simply  glad,  on 
general  principles,  to  thwart  Billins's  designs, 
and,  indeed,  he  was  guilty  of  a  little  indirect 
manoeuvring  to  this  end,  as  when,  on  several  oc- 
casions, he  took  pains  to  charge  his  children  to 
"  always  ac'  nice  an'  polite  to  Elder  ;  to  ricollec' 
thet  he  was  their  Sund'y-school  sup'intendent, 
which  was  the  same  ez  a  shepherd,  an'  of  co'se 
he  took  a  heap  o'  int'rest  in  all  the  lambs  of  'is 
flock." 

The  little  Bradfields  were  gentle  of  nature, 
and  took  readily  to  hints  of  politeness ;  and 
when  they  brought  their  catechisms  to  Billins 
for  recitation,  while  little  Sudie  shared  his  entire 
visit,  sitting  upon  his  knee,  there  was  no  one  to 
chide  them  for  excess  of  cordiality. 

As  Bradfield  sat  listening  to  the  low  murmur 
of  voices,  with  an  occasional  merry  note  of  laugh- 
ter from  the  widow,  or  a  rise  in  eloquent  fervor 


170  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

from  Billins,  he  was  most  uncomfortable,  and 
was  several  times  tempted  to  call  the  children  in 
"  out  o'  the  fallin'  dew."  But  it  was  difficult 
to  do  this,  for  two  reasons.  First,  because  he 
feared  that  if  he  should  do  so  the  whole  crowd 
would  come  over  to  his  side,  leaving  Billins  mas- 
ter of  the  situation,  and  if  he  waited  a  little 
while  Mrs.  Carroll  would  surely  call  them.  And, 
besides,  it  would  seem  almost  like  an  imputation 
against  her  watchfulness,  for  it  was  she  who  al- 
ways decided  such  matters,  and  why  should  he 
assume  that  she  had  forgotten  to-night  ? 

But  it  was  growing  late,  and  she  did  not  call 
them,  and  Billins's  voice  was  sinking  ominously 
lower.  It  was  well  that  Bradfield  could  not  hear 
what  he  was  saying. 

To  do  Eben  Bradfield  full  justice,  had  this 
been  possible  he  would  have  changed  his  seat — 
or  he  thought  he  would.  All  honest  men  think 
they  would  flee  from  such  temptation,  but  there 
are  thousands  of  estimable  men,  and  women  too, 
who  wouldn't  do  it ;  for  of  all  negative  crimes 
the  simple  acceptance  of  an  accidental,  unsought 
advantage  is  perhaps  the  most  insidious.  But 
Bradfield  could  not  hear  a  word.  He  got  the 
form  of  the  conversation,  though,  and  its  punct- 
uation reached  him  in  short  outbursts  of  laugh- 
ter from  the  widow.     But  this  had  not  come  for 


THE   MIDDLE   HALL  171 

some  time  now.  Indeed,  Billins's  long  periods 
were  proclaiming  the  affair  in  hand  no  laugh- 
ing matter. 

Perhaps  the  last  hour  of  the  interview  is  worth 
recording  here. 

"  Why,"  he  was  saying,  when  it  was  quite  dark, 
and  Bradfield  had  for  a  half -hour  thought  it 
time  for  him  to  be  gone — "  why,  Mis'  Carroll,  this 
thing  come  to  me  ez  a  rev'lation  from  Heaven — 
that's  what  it  did.  It  come  to  me  ez  a  rev'la- 
tion on  a  most  solemn  occasion,  too.  In  fact, 
to  show  you  how  solemn  it  was,  which  nobody 
reelized  more'n  what  you  did,  why,  it  was  the  day 
o'  yore  funeral,  Mis'  Carroll." 

"  My  funeral,  Elder !"  She  laughed  here  a 
little  nervously ;  and  Bradfield,  suddenly  an- 
gered, moved  his  chair  to  the  other  end  of  the 
porch.  "  My  funeral,  Elder  !  Why,  I  ain't  dead 
yet,  I  hope!" 

"Nor  will  be  for  many  happy  years  to  come, 
let  us  pray,  you  dear  heart !  I  mean  the  funeral 
you  give,  Mis'  Carroll — not  mentionin'no  names." 

"  Oh  !"  she  gasped. 

"  Yas  ;  an'  you  didn't  give  him  no  mean  one 
neither ;  and  ef  you  don't  mind  me  sayin'  it, 
why,  I'll  tell  you  what  Jim  Creese  says.  Says  he, 
talkin'  about  that  funeral,  'There's  a  woman,' 
says  he,  '  thet  when  she  pays  respects,  why,  she 


172  IN   SIMPKIKSVILLE 

pays  'em/  says  he — jest  so.  '  Different  fam'lies 
under  affliction  had  negotiated  with  me  for  that 
sample  coffin/  says  he,  '  bnt  when  it  come  to  the 
price,  why,  they'd  always  seem  to  think  maybe 
'twasn't  right  for  Christians,  believin'  in  the  res- 
urrection o'  the  dead,  to  imprison  theirs  in  a 
metallic — like  ez  ef  when  called  to  appear  they 
couldn't  rise  an'  drop  off  the  coffin  same  ez  a 
overcoat  no  longer  needed  —  an'  so/  says  he, 
'  they'd  fall  back  on  white  pine  an'  satin  ribbons, 
black,  white,  or  mixed,  accordin'  to  age  and  con- 
ditions. But  Mis'  Carroll,  when  it  come  to  the 
worst,  why,  she  jest  simply  ordered  the  sample 
off-hand/  says  he,  '  never  pricin'  it  nor  nothin'.' 

"An'  now  he's  done  bought  a  new  sample, 
with  side  an'  top  merrors  in  it,  an'  he  says  he's 
a-waitin'  to  see  the  next  one  dyin'  in  Simpkins- 
ville  thet  '11  be  thought  enough  of  to  lay  in  it. 
Have  you  saw  the  new  sample  down  in  the  show- 
window,  Mis'  Carroll  ?" 

"  No,  Elder,  I  haven't.  Tell  the  truth,  I  al- 
ways go  round  the  other  way  ruther  than  pass 
there." 

"  Well,  you'd  ought  to  see  it.  Th'  'ain't  been 
nothin'  like  it  in  these  parts  before.  It  cert'n'y 
is  gorgeous,  though  I  can't  say  ez  it  attracts  me 
much.  I  don't  see  no  good  in  seemhr  to  be 
buryin'  three,  which  these  merrors  reflec';  and 


THE  MIDDLE   HALL  173 

four  with  the  cover  on;  though  of  co'se  the  fo'th 
one  is  only  for  the  benefit  o'  the  occupant.  Of 
co'se  some  survivers  might  take  comfort  in  mul- 
tiplyin'  their  griefs  that-a-way ;  an'  for  a  de- 
parted bachelor  or  a  maiden  lady  it  might  re- 
lieve the  monotony  a  little,  an'  make  'em  seem 
more  like  fam'ly  persons,  an',  after  a  lonely  life, 
they  might  care  to  have  sech  reflections  cast, 
though  /  wouldn't. 

"  But  that  ain't  neither  here  nor  there.  What 
I  was  a-startin'  to  say  was  thet  it  was  the  day  o' 
this  solemn  occasion,  when  we  was  in  the  church, 
an'  John  Carroll  was  layin'  his  last  lay  in  the 
sample  before  the  pul-pit,  when  you  an'  yores 
had  follered  him,  two  by  two,  up  the  middle 
aisle,  thet  the  rev'lation  come  to  me.  A  voice 
said  in  my  ear,  jest  ez  plain  ez  I'm  a-sayin'  it  to 
you  now,  '  David  Billins,'says  it, '  bide  yore  time 
in  patience,  but  there's  yore  family.' 

"  You  know,  Mis'  Carroll,"  he  continued,  after 
a  pause,  which  she  did  not  break,  "the  tie  be- 
twixt John  Carroll  an'  me  was  mighty  close-t. 
We  wasn't  no  ord'nary  friends ;  an',  tell  the 
truth,  ef  you  hadn't  a-ordered  that  sample,  why, 
it  was  my  intention  to  do  it,  jest  out  of  respects 
to  the  best  friend  I  ever  had,  which  was  John 
hisself,  ez  you  well  know.  John  done  every- 
thing for  me  thet  a  friend   could  well   do  in 


174  IN    SIMPKINSVILLE 

life — an'  in  death  too,  ef  yon  give  yore  con- 
sents." 

Mrs.  Carroll  fanned  nervously,  and  found  it 
necessary  to  move  her  chair,  her  quick  motion 
having  caught  one  of  its  rockers  under  the  ban- 
isters.   But  Billins  went  on  without  interruption. 

"  An'  the  fact  is  I've  did  John  sev'al  friendly 
favors,  an'  whether  yon  snspicioned  it  or  not, 
one  of  'em  was  keepin'  out  o'  yore  way  jest  ez 
soon  ez  I'd  saw  what  his  sentiments  was  to'ards 
you — long  years  ago. 

"  Yes,  ez  school-girl,  maid,  wife,  an'  widder, 
you've  always  been  the  first  lady  o'  the  republic 
to  David  Billins.  But  John  Carroll  was  my  friend, 
an'  sech  was,  and  is,  my  idees  o'  friendship. 

"When  I  had  give  you  up  to  him  it  was  like  ez 
ef  I  had  surrendered  the  last  thing  on  earth  ;  but 
I  give  it  freely,  never  expectin'  to  get  it  back  ; 
an'  now  its  jest  ez  ef  John  had  sat  up  in  his 
grave  an'  said  to  me  :  'Here's  your  loand,  Dave 
Billins.     Take  it  back — with  interest.' 

"  Of  co'se  they'se  some  folks  thet  'd  contend 
thet  under  sech  circumstances  I  couldn't  take 
no  interest  in  John's  child'en  ;  but  to  my  mind 
— ef  you'll  excuse  me  makin'  a  mighty  triflin' 
figgur  o'  speech — to  my  mind  this  is  a  case  where 
the  cheerful  takin'  of  interest  on  a  loand  is  a 
proof  of  friendship. 


THE   MIDDLE    HALL  175 

"  An'  no  jokin',  Mis'  Carroll,  they're  abont  ez 
handsome  a  lot  o'  step-child'en  ez  any  man  ever 
aspired  to ;  an'  I  don't  begrudge  it  to  'em, 
neither,  not  even  sech  o'  their  features  ez  they 
taken  after  John.  Of  co'se  yore  child'en  couldn't 
be  no  ways  but  purty,  don't  keer  who  fathered 
'em  ;  an'  John  wasn't  a  bad-lookin'  man,  neither, 
though  I  have  thought  thet  ef  looks  had  a-been 
all,  I  might  o'  stood  my  chances  with  John — of 
co'se  I  mean  befo'  I'd  fell  away  like  I  have. 
Sence  I've  started  a-thinnin'  out,  flesh  an'  hair, 
of  co'se  I  don't  claim  much  ez  to  looks  ;  but  I 
depend  mo'  upon  yore  ricollection  o'  what  I  have 
been  in  my  day  an'  generation  to  show  what  con- 
ditions I  could  return  to,  in  part  at  least,  ef 
home  an'  happiness  an'  wife  an'  child'en  should 
suddenly  descend  from  heaven  upon  me.  Why, 
I'm  jest  ez  shore  thet  I'd  fatten  up  under  it,  an' 
be  measur'bly  like  I  used  to  be,  ez  I  am  thet — 
Well,  I'm  that  shore  of  it  thet,  though  I  don't 
to  say  favor  divo'ces,  I'd  give  you  free  leave  to 
divo'ce  me  out  of  hand  ef  I  don't.  An'  them 
fainty  spells  thet  come  over  me  sometimes,  they 
ain't  nothin'  but  heart  weakness,  the  doctor  says. 
But  of  co'se  he  don't  know  why  it's  weak — nor 
how  it  could  be  strengthened  by  the  suppo't  of 
yore  love." 

Mrs.  Carroll  felt  no  disposition  to  smile  as  she 


176  IN"   SIMPKINSVILLE 

glanced  up  into  the  speaker's  thin,  serious  face. 
There  was  a  new  depth  to  his  voice  as  he  had 
thus  confessed  his  life's  secret — a  depth  that  all 
his  fervent  confessions  in  public  prayer  had 
never  revealed.  It  was  still  the  prayer-meeting 
voice — hut  more. 

Somehow,  up  to  this  time,  while  priding  her- 
self somewhat  upon  Billins's  romantic  attachment, 
she  had  never  been  able  to  take  him  quite  seri- 
ously. It  is  hard  to  take  a  confirmed  old  bach- 
elor seriously,  his  whole  life  seeming  to  give 
the  lie  to  any  fixed  matrimonial  intention.  It 
is  only  when  one  knows  the  story,  the  personal 
why  of  the  individual  case,  that  she  is  able  to 
admit  her  old-bachelor  lover  into  the  category  of 
earnest  suitors. 

Indeed,  it  is  doubtful  whether  or  not  one  of 
these  presumably  self-elected  celibates  ever  does 
make  his  tardy  way  with  the  desired  woman 
without  prefacing  his  suit  with  a  touching  ex- 
planation of  "how  it  happened."  That  these 
explanations  are  usually  lies  does  not  alter  the 
case. 

But  Billins  was  not  lying,  and  Mrs.  Carroll 
knew  it  as  she  looked  at  him.  He  was  a  thin, 
homely  old  man,  absurd,  perhaps,  in  his  present 
role  of  aspirant  to  step-fatherhood,  certainly  so 
in  his  confident  promise  to  return  to  youthful 


THE    MIDDLE   HALL  177 

good  looks,  but  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Mrs. 
Carroll  saw  him  without  a  trace  of  the  ridiculous. 
Indeed,  so  was  her  heart  suddenly  suffused  with 
sympathy  for  the  lonely  man  as  he  sat,  a  pathetic 
•embodiment  of  self-abnegation  before  her,  that, 
in  the  old-time  confusion  of  tender  sentiments, 
she  felt  for  the  moment  that  love  had  come  into 
her  life  again — and  she  was  startled. 

Her  next  thoughts,  by  a  strange  and  subtle 
connection,  were  of  Eben  Bradfield's  children, 
and  their  motherless  state  —  their  ill  -  fitting 
clothes,  their  croupy  tendencies. 

What  this  had  to  do  with  anything  David 
Billins  or  any  other  man  chose  to  say  to  her, 
when  she  had  many  times  wrathfully  declared 
that  she  wouldn't  marry  that  skinflint  Eben 
Bradfield  to  save  his  life,  she  did  not  stop  to  ask 
herself.  She  simply  realized  a  traitorous  rela- 
tion to  the  legacy  of  responsibility  left  at  her 
door  by  her  old-time  neighbor  and  friend. 

If  she  should  marry  another,  Bradfield  would 
no  doubt  forthwith  start  out  and  find  him  a 
bride:  "an'  like  ez  not  she'd  be  some  young 
chit  of  a  girl  thet  wouldn't  know  no  more  about 
sewin'  an'  doin'  for  five  child'en  'n  nothin'." 

These  thoughts  rushed  through  her  mind  with 
the  rapidity  of  an  electric  current  as  she  sat 
alone  with  Billins,  listening  to  his  story. 


178  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

And  just  here  it  was  that  the  sound  of  a 
croupy  cough  came  to  her  from  the  front  yard. 
Little  Mary  Bradfield  was  taking  cold.  It  was 
time  for  the  children  to  come  in,  and  she  did 
not  hesitate  a  moment.  What  she  said,  how- 
ever, was  : 

"  You,  Mamie  Bradfield !  Oh,  Mamie !"  And, 
when  the  little  girl  appeared  before  her,  "  Honey, 
I  hear  you  a-coughin',  an'  it's  time  you  was  all 
goin'  in  now."  She  did  not  say  "coming  in"; 
she  said,  distinctly,  ''going."  "An'  tell  yore 
pa  I  say  he  better  give  you  a  spoonful  o'  that 
cough  surrup  I  made  you — right  away." 

This  speech,  sending  the  entire  crowd  over  to 
Bradfield's,  was  the  first  tangible  encouragement 
Billins  had  received  at  her  hands ;  and  when 
Bradfield  got  her  message,  delivered  in  chorus 
by  the  crowd,  he  realized  for  the  first  time  that 
Billins,  as  his  rival,  was  to  be  taken  in  all  seri- 
ousness. As  to  himself,  he  felt  formally  re- 
fused. 

So  elated  was  Billins  over  the  little  turn  which 
it  seemed  to  give  his  prospects  that  he  took 
courage  to  draw  his  chair — it  was  the  rustic  one 
he  had  made  for  her — a  little  nearer  the  widow. 

"  Elder,"  she  began,  thoughtfully,  before  he 
had  spoken  again,  "did  John  ever  know  about 
you  wantin'  to  keep  comp'ny  with  me  ?" 


THE   MIDDLE    HALL  179 

"  John  Carroll  ?  No,  ma'am,  he  didn't.  Why, 
ef  he'd  've  knew  it,  I  reckon  you'd  've  died  a  ol' 
maid,  so  far  ez  we  two  was  concerned.  We'd  V 
sat  off  an'  twirled  our  thumbs,  time  out  o'  mind, 
neither  one  willin'  to  take  advantage  o'  the  other. 
No,  ma'am,  nobody  atop  o'  this  round  world 
knew  it  but  the  good  Lord  an'  the  'umble  person 
thet's  a-tellin'  you  now — not  another  soul,  less  'n 
'tis  my  guardeen  angel.  I  did  expec'  thet  that 
secret  would  'a'  been  buried  with  me — in  my 
coffin — an',  tell  the  truth,  Mis'  Carroll,  I've  put 
down  in  my  will  thet  I  was  to  have  a  pink  satin- 
lined  one — not  for  myself,  but  because  that 
secret  was  to  lay  in  it. 

"An'  I'm  a-talkin' right  along — not  stoppin' 
to  see  what  you're  a-fixin'  to  say.  But  ef  you 
feel  sliore  thet  you  couldn't  never  bring  your- 
self to  it — an'  me  so  thin  an'  peaked,  I  wouldn't 
blame  you  much — but  ef  sech  is  the  case,  thet 
you  couldn't  consider  it  no  ways,  why,  don't 
speak  the  word  to-night.  Let  this  be  the  one 
night  in  my  life — even  ef  you're  bound  by  con- 
science to  write  me  a  letter  in  the  mornin'.  I 
want  to  set  here  by  yore  side  an'  jest  co't  you 
for  all  I'm  worth — for  this  once-t — an'  ashamed 
of  it  am  I  not. 

"  I've  took  partic'lar  pains,  Mis'  Carroll,  ever 
sense   the   day  I   set  out — which  was   the   day 


180  IK    SIMPKINSVILLE 

follerin'  yore  full  year  o'  widderhood — Fve  took 
partic'laj'  pains  not  to  conceal  nothin'  from  the 
Simpkinsville  folks,  an'  they  can't  none  of  'em 
point  a  finger  at  David  Billins  an'  say  he  used  to 
be  a-spoonin'  'round  with  this  girl  an'  that  one — 
for  spoons  have  I  never  traded  in,  not  even  in 
my  sto'e.  But  I  dare  'em  not  to  say  thet  I  have 
co'ted  you  clivec',  straightforward  an'  outspoken, 
leavin'  nothin'  undone  thet  might,  could,  would, 
or  should  'a'  been  done  to  prove  myself  yore  de- 
voted lover,  world  without  end,  Amen." 

He  paused  here,  and  Mrs.  Carroll  felt  almost 
as  if  she  were  in  church,  so  familiar  was  his  rev- 
erent voice  in  the  oft-repeated  form  with  which 
he  closed  his  frequent  prayers.  She  was  really 
awed  into  silence.  But  Billins  had  soon  re- 
sumed, his  voice  falling  still  lower. 

"An'  ef  it  all  ends  to-night,  I  reckon,  by  the 
help  o'  the  good  Lord,  I  can  go  back  to  my  little 
house  an'  start  fresh  in  the  old  track  ;  but  noth- 
in' can't  take  this  away,  thet  I've  been  permitted 
to  set  by  yore  side  an'  declare  my  heart.  An'  it  '11 
go  down  in  Simpkinsville  word-o'-mouth  hist'ry 
thet  David  Billins  loved  an'  co'ted  Mary  Carroll. 
It  '11  be  passed  down  in  the  spoken  records  that- 
a-way,  even  ef  you  don't  'low  to  have  it  recorded 
in  the  co't-house — which,  with  the  blessin'  o'  the 
Lord  an'  the  co't's  seal,  I  trust  it  may  be." 


THE   MIDDLE    HALL  181 

This  sort  of  love-making  was  new  to  Mary- 
Carroll.  Never  had  man  spoken  to  her  after 
this  manner  before,  and  she  was  silenced  in  the 
presence  of  what  seemed  a  more  romantic  and  a 
loftier  sentiment  than  she  had  known. 

In  the  light  of  this  new  interpretation,  all  of 
Billins's  conspicuous  attentions  took  to  them- 
selves a  fresh  dignity.  She,  as  well  as  the  rest  of 
Simpkinsville,  had  smiled  when  his  mare  ap- 
peared in  the  road,  a  bouquet  of  color  illumined 
by  the  late  sun,  as  he  rode  in  with  his  floral  of- 
ferings. She  had  smiled  at  his  gallant  speeches, 
laughed  in  her  sleeve  at  the  new  expression  of  his 
figure  as  he  met  her  with  a  courtly  bow;  but 
from,  this  time  forward,  whatever  the  ultimate 
result  of  to-night's  interview,  she  would  be  on 
his  side.  She  would  never  be  inclined  to  laugh 
again. 

Indeed,  the  romantic  avowal  was  very  sweet 
to  her  woman's  ears ;  but  whether  she  was 
moved  by  the  force  of  his  passion,  his  fervor  in 
its  declaration,  or  was  really  falling  seriously 
in  love  with  the  man,  she  did  not  for  the  mo- 
ment know  ;  but  even  while  listening  to  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  she  turned  her  eyes  towards 
Bradfield's  cottage  and  sighed.  And  then  she 
said  in  all  seriousness,  and  with  a  humility  of 
manner  that  was  an  added  charm  : 


182  IN"   SIMPKINSV1LLE 

"  Elder,  I'm  very  much  afraid  you've  been 
deceived  in  me — all  my  life.  Yon  know,  I  never 
was,  to  say,  very  religious — an'  I'm  a  mighty 
pore  hand  to  go  to  communion,  which  you 
cert'n'y  must  know,  ef  you've  taken  notice. 
They's  a  heap  o'  better  an'  more  religious  women 
in  Simpkinsville  'n  what  I  am — an'  for  a  man 
versed  in  Scripture  verses,  an'  gifted  in  prayer 
like  you  are — " 

Billins  raised  his  voice  to  speak,  but  she  in- 
terrupted him. 

"  Don't  say  a  word,  Elder.  I  know  myself, 
an'  I  know  I'm  awfully  set  on  worldly  vanities. 
Th'  ain't  a  inch  o'  my  house  thet  don't  show  it, 
too — not  even  to  a  pantry-shelf.  The  money  I 
spend  on  colored  paper  for  them  shelves  would 
buy  a  lot  o'  trac's  for  the  conversion  o'  sinners, 
I  know,  an'  the  time  I  take  notchin'  it  out  in 
patterns  I  could  be  out  distributin'  'em,  too — 
an'  yet  I  can't  even  say  to  you  now  that  I'm  re- 
solved to  do  it.  I  ain't  the  trac'-distributin' 
sort.  Even  the  religious  habits  I've  been  raised 
to  don't  seem  to  be  very  strong  in  me.  Ef  I'm 
purty  tired  of  nights,  'stid  of  readin'  a  whole 
chapter  o'  Scripture,  I  don't  hesitate  to  take  a 
single  verse.  I  did  try  to  stick  to  readin'  the 
full  chapter,  but  I  found  myself  a-readin'  the 
hundred  and  seventeenth  psalm  purty  near  every 


THE    MIDDLE    HALL  183 

night,  till  it  was  acchilly  scand'lous,  an'  I  got 
so  ashamed  of  it  thet  I  thought  it  'd  be  mo' 
honest  to  take  a  verse  or  two  outright  some- 
wheres  else.  So  now  that's  what  I  most  gen'rally 
do;  an',  tell  the  truth,  some  nights  I  don't  dis- 
turb the  Bible  at  all,  but  just  say  over  to  myself 
some  verse  I  know,  though  I  do  try  to  say  one 
thet  '11  be  a  reproof  to  me  for  sech  ungodliness. 
An'  many  a  cold  night  have  I  said  my  prayers 
in  bed.  Don't  say  a  word.  I  knew  you'd  be 
surprised,  but  I  tell  you  some  o'  the  church- 
goin'  people  you'd  least  suspect  are  the  most 
wicked — an'  I'm  one  of  'em.  An'  ez  to  worldly- 
mindedness  an'  vanity,  why,  I'm  jest  full  of  it. 
I  do  jest  love  a  purty  house." 

"  Of  co'se  you  do,  Mis'  Carroll.  An'  why 
shouldn't  you,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  I  like  a  purty 
house  myself,  though,  to  look  at  my  little  one 
room,  nobody  'd  think  so.  But  I've  had  a  sen- 
ti-ment  about  that  little  house  o'  mine — ever 
sence  I  put  it  up.  Tell  the  truth,  it  ain't 
founded  on  nothin'  but  sen-ti-ment. 

"  You  ricollec',  I  built  that  house  befo'  you 
was  married.  I  wanted  a  place  to  sleep  nights — 
outside  o'  the  sto'e-house — an'  so  I  built  that  right 
in  the  sto'e-house  yard  where  it  stands  now ;  but 
I  was  determined  then  thet  it  mustn't  be  home- 
like or  nice,  for  there  was  only  one  person  in  the 


184  IN    SIMPKINSVILLE 

world  thet  could  ever  make  David  Billins  a  home, 
an7  that  was  Mary  Sommers,  which  you  then 
was.  So  I  jest  built  that  one  room — good  an' 
wide  an'  high — an*  says  I  to  myself,  '  Ef  the  day 
ever  comes  when  she  gives  her  consents,  why, 
then  it  '11  be  for  her  to  say  where  she  wants 
rooms  added  on — always  retainin'  the  one  en- 
trance-room for  a  middle  hall.'  That's  why  I 
finished  off  that  front  cornish  so  nice,  an'  put 
in  that  oak-grained  door,  with  the  little  diamond 
winder-panes  all  round  it. 

"  My  house  ain't  no  house,  Mis'  Carroll.  It 
ain't  a  blessed  thing  but  a  front  door  an'  hall 
to  yore  res-i-dence — whenever  you're  ready  to 
take  possession  an'  order  the  improvements. 
That's  all  it  is,  or  ever  has  been.  An'  ez  to 
yore  bein'  worldly-minded  an'  likin'  purty  things, 
why,  that's  a  part  of  every  wifely  woman's  life — 
to  have  an'  keep  things  purty. 

"An'  when  the  Maker  has  set  her  sech  a  ex- 
ample ez  He  has  set  you,  which  you  can't  deny 
in  the  face  of  a  merror,  why — excuse  me  for 
chucklin'  this-a-way,  but  all  sech  a  woman  ez 
you  would  have  to  do  would  be  to  try  to  live  up 
to  the  beauty  the  Lord  has  laid  on  herself,  an' 
to  keep  her  surroundin's  worthy  o'  that  mark, 
which  it  'd  take  a  long  purse  an'  a  extravagant 
hand  to  do  too,  and  keep  half  even." 


THE    MIDDLE   HALL   •  185 

Billing  inclined  his  head  in  his  characteristic 
old-school  fashion  as  he  closed  this  speech. 

"  I  declare,  Elder,  you  mustn't  talk  that- 
a-way."  There  was  a  note  of  real  embarrass- 
ment in  hei  protest. 

"  Yas,  I  n  ust  talk  that-a-way,  too,  or  else  be 
dumb.  Why  Mis'  Carroll,  you'd  be  jest  ez  out 
o'  place  in  a  bare,  ugly  house  ez — well,  ez  I'd  be, 
by  my  lonesome,  awkward  self,  in  a  purty  one — 
there  ! 

"  But  remember  they's  jest  ez  beautiful  a 
house  a-waitin'  for  you  out  at  my  place  ez  you 
care  to  call  for — an'  plenty  o'  money  for  you  to 
draw  on  whenever  you  care  to  let  me  set  a  rock- 
in'-chair  in  the  hall  for  you  to  rock  in  while  you 
plan  out  the  improvements. 

"  An'  the  trees  are  all  set  out  so  ez  not  to  in- 
terfere with  any  reasonable  plans  you  might 
have — an'  they  ain't  one  of  'em  too  good  to  chop 
down  ef  they're  in  yore  way  either.  I  set  'em 
that-a-way  intentional.  An'  I  thought  maybe 
you'd  like  yore  room  on  the  south  side,  so  I've 
set  all  the  flowerin'  trees  that  side — maginolias 
an'  crape-myrtles  an'  camellias.  An'  that  oF 
catalpa-tree  thet  was  there  a'ready,  I  was  a-fix- 
in'  to  chop  it  out,  an'  seemed  like  it  got  wind 
of  it  an'  started  a-turnin'  out  special  crops  o' 
speckled-throated  flowers  to  beg  for  its  life.     So 


186  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

I  left  it  there;  but  you  might  like  it  tojk  ont. 
It's  a  tolerable  coa'se  tree — for  yore  side  o'  the 
house. 

"  Oh,  how  happy  I  am  settin'  here  cellin'  you 
all  about  it  !  Of  co'se  they  was  all  sf)t  out  befo' 
you  was  married ;  but  I've  always  l.ved  in  that 
one  room  in  the  middle  of  a  'mammary  house 
where  you've  came  an'  went  through  doors  thet 
was  never  cut. 

"  Maybe  some  would  say  it  wasn't  right — an' 
you  married  to  another — but  I  can't  see  the 
wrong  of  it,  save  my  life,  an'  it  has  saved  me 
many  a  lonely  hour — that  an',  of  co'se,  the  con- 
solations o'  faith. 

"  An'  ez  to  yore  claimin'  not  to  be  religious, 
why,  I  reckon  I've  done  enough  prayin'  an'  Bible- 
readin'  for  both  of  us.  It  nachilly  takes  mo' 
watchfulness  an'  prayer  to  keep  a  man  straight 
than  it  does  a  woman,  special  when  the  Lord 
created  her  ez  near  perfec'  ez  He  dared — without 
clair  breakin'  His  rule  for  mortals  on  this  mun- 
dane sp'ere." 

"  I  do  declare  you  mustn't  talk  that-a-way,  El- 
der. It  ain't  right.  I'm  so  far  off  from  half  per- 
fect, even,  thet  I  feel  like  a  hypocrite  jest  a-listen- 
in'  at  you.  Here  come  them  child'en  o'  mine  'crost 
the  stile  now,  an'  I'm  ready  to  bet  thet  Mary 
Bradfield  is  sick,  an'  they've  sent  for  me. 


THE    MIDDLE   HALL  187 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it  soon  ez  I  see  you  child'en 
comin'  'crost  the  stile  " — she  was  now  addressing 
the  group,  who  by  this  time  had  announced  their 
errand. 

Mamie  Bradfield  was  sick,  but  Eben  had  not 
sent  for  his  neighbor.  His  message  was  simply 
that  he  had  given  the  prescribed  dose  of  croup 
syrup ;  the  child  continued  hoarse  ;  should  he 
give  another  ? 

"  And,  mamma/'  the  little  Carroll  girl  added, 
"  I  think  maybe  you  better  come  over,  'cause 
little  Mamie  is  a-breathin'  awful  whistly." 

Mrs.  Carroll  thought  so  too,  and  so  did  Billins, 
who  forthwith  rose,  awkwardly  wondering  if  he 
could  do  anything  to  help. 

"  Cert'n'y,  Elder  ;  you  better  come  right  along 
with  me,"  she  answered,  quickly ;  and  then  she 
added — prudentially,  "You  know,  she  might 
get  worse,  an'  you  could  go  for  the  doctor." 

And  so,  the  children  leading  the  way,  they 
hurried  across  to  Bradfield's  house. 

As  she  mounted  the  stile,  standing  thus  in  the 
very  centre  of  his  proposed  hall  to  unite  the  two 
houses,  the  widow  could  not  help  instituting  a 
comparison  between  this  and  Billins's  actual 
hall  awaiting  her  commands,  a  mile  away. 

To  her  mind  this  one  was  simply  a  practical 
economic  scheme ;  the  other  expressed  the  de- 


188  IK   SIMPKINSVILLE 

votion  of  a  life.  And  yet  her  own  life  and  its 
interests  were  rooted  here.  She  sighed  as  she 
stepped  lightly  off  the  stoop  on  the  Bradfield 
side. 

But  there  was  no  time  now  for  selfish  thought. 
The  "whistly  breathing"  of  the  little  sufferer 
had  by  this  time  become  a  hoarse  bark,  and  at 
the  sound  of  it  Mrs.  Carroll  quickened  her  steps ; 
then,  turning  hurriedly,  she  sent  Billins  in  haste 
for  the  doctor.  But,  shame  to  tell,  Avhen  his 
slim  figure  disappeared  among  the  trees,  the 
thought  that  took  shape  in  her  mind,  as  she 
followed  the  children  in,  was  precisely  this : 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  good  it  did  Susan 
Bradfield  to  die,  anyhow.  She'd  ought  to  've 
stayed  right  here  an'  looked  after  her  child'en — 
that's  what  she'd  ought  to  've  done  !" 

But  when  she  had  entered,  her  voice  was  very 
womanly  and  tender  as  she  held  out  her  arms 
and  said  : 

"  Lemme  hold  'er,  Eben." 

She  had  called  Bradfield  by  his  first  name  only 
at  rare  intervals  during  his  life — in  times  of  af- 
fliction— and  her  doing  so  now  was  a  first  dan- 
ger-signal to  the  father's  slow  ears.  It  alarmed 
him  more  than  had  the  metallic  cough  or  the 
ever-turning  head  of  the  restless  child  strug- 
glinsr  for  breath  in  his  arms. 


THE    MIDDLE   HALL  189 

But  the  warning  note  had  come  in  a  voice  of 
sympathy,  and  his  heart  went  out  of  him  afresh 
to  both  child  and  woman  as  he  laid  the  little  one 
in  her  arms.  And  his  being  was  flooded  with 
a  great  wave  of  pain  in  the  presence  of  the  im- 
minent loss  of  both.  Then  came  the  boon  of 
loving  service  —  tending  the  one,  obeying  the 
other. 

Mrs.  Carroll,  gentle,  alert,  maternal,  was  en- 
tire mistress  of  the  situation,  while  poor  Brad- 
field,  not  having  the  sick-nurse  faculty — a  rare 
endowment,  indeed,  to  his  sex — blundered  like 
an  awkward  boy  as  he  mutely  did  her  bidding, 
his  only  words  being  disconnected  terms  of  en- 
dearment spoken  to  the  sick  child. 

The  first  half-hour  spent  thus  was  one  of  those 
pocket  editions  of  eternity  that  mortals  are  some- 
times bidden  to  read  at  a  sitting,  and  it  would 
be  hard  to  say  whether  to  man,  woman,  or  child 
it  seemed  longest — to  which  it  was  fraught  with 
keenest  pain. 

There  was  at  least  nothing  complex  in  the 
child's  simple  physical  battle  for  breath. 

By  what  mental  or  emotional  process  the  neigh- 
bor-woman came  into  vital  concern  in  the  mat- 
ter does  not  at  present  appear,  nor,  indeed,  look- 
ing in  upon  her  as  she  calmly  took  charge  of 
things,  changing  chaos  to  order  by  a  few  mas- 


190  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

terf  ul  strokes,  wonld  one  suspect  that  the  heart 
guiding  the  executive  hand  was  in  ftie  first 
tremors  of  a  conviction  involving  heavy  issues 
and  painful  complexities.  And,  too,  her  mother- 
heart  was  deeply  touched  for  the  frail  little  one 
Avhose  mother-needing  life  hung  so  lightly  in 
the  balance  before  her.  But  dominating  all  was 
the  woman  of  faculty — the  woman  who  knew 
equally  well  how  to  get  the  sleepy  children  noise- 
lessly to  bed  without  exciting  a  suspicion  of  dan- 
ger, and  to  secure  the  needed  services  of  the 
half-asleep  old  darky  nodding  in  the  doorway 
by  the  exactly  reverse  policy  of  scaring  her  into 
wakefulness — a  bit  of  tact  exemplified  in  a  nut- 
shell in  the  following  sentence  spoken  in  the  old 
negro's  ear  while  Bradfield's  back  was  turned : 

"Aunt  Randy,  step  around  quietly  an'  get 
them  child'en  off  to  bed,  where  they  belong,  an' 
don't  let  'em  know  how  bad  off  Mamie  is.  Then, 
ef  you'll  get  some  water  het  right  quick,  an* 
some  mustard  mixed  'g'inst  the  doctor's  orders, 
maybe  we  can  bring  her  through — ef  she  don't 
choke  to  death  'fo'  the  doctor  gets  here.  An' 
drive  that  black  cat  away,  for  gracious'  sakes, 
'fo'  she  meaows  in  the  doorway.  We  don't  want 
any  death-signs  to-night !" 

Nothing  was  forgotten  in  the  pressure  of  the 
moment — not  even  the  setting  of  a  lantern  in  the 


THE   MIDDLE    HALL  191 

front  door,  so  that  the  doctor  should  see  his  way 
clearly  np  the  walk. 

This  thoughtful  provision  was  not  destined  to 
serve  its  purpose  to-night,  however.  The  little 
patient  passed  the  crisis  of  her  disease,  and  fell 
into  a  feverish  sleep  in  Mrs.  Carroll's  lap  with- 
out professional  treatment.  And  the  lantern 
burned  all  night  in  the  doorway. 

When  the  necessity  for  the  doctor  was  passed, 
and  the  prospect  of  his  visit  reduced  to  a  mini- 
mum by  the  coming  of  the  "  wee  short  hours/' 
Mrs.  Carroll  forbore  to  remove  the  light,  which 
was  as  a  third  personality,  sharing  the  watch 
with  her  and  Bradfield,  its  bright  eye  exercising 
over  the  two  a  sort  of  friendly  chaperonage — a 
word  entirely  foreign  to  her  vocabulary. 

Bradfield,  poor  in  speech  even  when  present- 
ing a  definite  plea,  was  wellnigh  dumb  to-night. 
He  sat  at  a  distance  from  her,  and  when  the  dan- 
ger was  passed  he  drew  his  chair  quite  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room,  Avhence  from  time  to 
time  he  timidly  ventured  such  expressions  of 
commonplace  solicitude  as  the  following :  "I'm 
'fear'd  you'll  be  completely  wo'e  out  settin'  up 
all  night  this-a-way,  Mis'  Carroll." 

Mrs.  Carroll  was  not  worn  out  physically,  but 
her  patience  was  wellnigh  threadbare,  and  her 
state  of  mind  towards  Billins  such  as  to  fill  her 


192  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

soul  with  criminations  of  self.  She  had  known, 
as  soon  as  she  had  come  into  the  presence  of  the 
silent  man  in  his  extremity,  that  Billins's  case 
was  utterly  hopeless.  The  revulsion  of  feeling 
was  as  absolute  as  it  was  sudden,  and  she  resent- 
ed it  in  herself  as  fiercely  as  she  had  hitherto 
resented  Bradfield's  parsimony,  as  indeed  she  re- 
sented it  yet. 

This  was  why  the  first  hour  of  her  watch  with 
him  was  one  of  torture.  She  felt  the  restfulness 
of  his  quiet  presence,  and  she  resented  even 
that. 

Billins  had  courted  her  in  prodigal  fashion, 
sparing  nothing,  even  to  his  own  dignity.  His 
words  were  buzzing  in  iier  ears  yet,  but  they 
were  as  a  swarm  of  bees  that  worried  and  wearied 
her.  The  perfume  of  romance  with  which  they 
had  fallen  from  his  fluent  lips  was  supplanted 
in  the  brief  retrospect  by  the  all-pervading  odors 
of  shaving -soap  and  orris  root.  So  other  per- 
sonal touches  that  had  eluded  her  at  the  mo- 
ment presented  themselves  in  the  after-view. 
The  fascination  had  been  a  thing  of  an  hour, 
and  the  hour  was  past. 

She  would  have  to  write  him  a  letter  in  the 
morning,  and  she  would  almost  rather  die  than 
do  it ;  for,  treat  it  as  she  might,  she  could  not 
doubt  the  sincerity  of  his  declaration. 


THE   MIDDLE   HALL  193 

It  was  nearly  day  when  finally  she  slipped  the 
sleeping  child  gently  into  her  cradle  and  rose  to 
go.  Bradfield  had  risen  with  her,  and  stood  on 
the  other  side  of  the  cradle. 

She  afterwards  said,  in  recalling  this  moment, 
that  she  was  as  much  surprised  and  frightened 
as  he  professed  to  have  been  at  the  sound  of  her 
own  voice,  as  she  said,  looking  up  into  his  face  : 

"Eben,  set  down  there  a  minute;  I  want  to 
talk  to  you."  Indeed,  she  roundly  denied  after- 
wards that  she  had  spoken  these  words,  to  which 
Bradfield  laughingly  agreed  that  she  had  not, 
"but  the  Lord  had  spoken  'em  through  her." 
And  perhaps  he  was  right,  for  when  he  had 
seated  himself  on  his  side  of  the  cradle  she  said, 
slowly  :  "  Eben,  the  Lord  knows  what  I'm  goin' 
to  say  to  you,  for  I  don't.  But  there's  one  thing 
shore.  You  can't  live  along  this  way  any  longer. 
I  won't  allow  it.  I've  got  to  have  these  child'en 
where  I  can  do  for  'em  right. 

"  But  I  ain't  quite  ez  mean-sperited  ez  you 
think  I  am,  either.  There  ain't  a  man  livin'  atop 
o'  this  earth  thet  I'd  allow  to  marry  me  for  an 
economy — not  even  you.  Ef  I'm  married,  I've 
got  to  be  married  ez  an  extravagance  worth  bein' 
afforded,  an'  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 

"  Don't  say  a  word,  now.  I've  been  burstin' 
for  a  year,  an'  when  it's  all  out  I'll  feel  better. 


194  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

An'  I'll  tell  you  what  I've  got  to  say  :  Ef  you'll 
promise  me  to  have  that  dividin'-fence  chopped 
up  for  firewood,  or  made  into  a  bonfire  nex'  Dem- 
ocrat you  help  'lect  for  Congress,  I'll  say  to  take 
it  down ;  but.  I  don't  want  picket  or  post  of  it 
ever  set  up  on  my  premises,  long  ez  I  live.  An' 
ef  you  ca'culate  to  set  a  middle  hall  in  here, 
throwin'  the  two  houses  into  one,  which  '11  be 
the  handiest  thing  to  do,  why,  I  don't  want  any 
money  saved  on  it — I'd  ruther  see  it  wasted  ;  an' 
that's  all  I've  got  to  say.  An'  you  can  think  it 
over,  an'  set  me  against  the  expense,  an'  balance 
the  accounts,  an'  let  me  know. 

"An'  nex'  time  she  stirs  give  'er  fo'  drops  out 
o'  this  bottle,  an'  I  reckon  she  better  have  her 
little  shoes  an'  stockin's  on  in  the  mornin'  till 
the  day  warms  up." 

She  had  risen  and  was  moving  towards  the 
door,  but  Bradfield  caught  her,  and  had  thrown 
his  long  arms  clear  around  her  shoulders  before 
she  could  resist.  Thus,  with  eyes  swimming  in 
tears,  he  confronted  her. 

"  My  God  !  Mary  Carroll  !"  This  was  all  he 
could  say,  but  he  held  her  tight  until  he.  should 
recover  his  voice.  And  just  then  it  was  that  the 
lantern  keeping  guard  at  the  door  tumbled  over 
and  went  suddenly  out.  There  are  times  when 
the  chaperon  does  well  to  close  her  eyes. 


THE   MIDDLE    HALL  195 

The  rolling  over  of  the  lantern  of  its  own  ac- 
cord was  an  improbable  phenomenon,  and  when 
Bradfield  and  Mrs.  Carroll  started  to  investigate 
it,  they  walked  discreetly,  arm's-length  apart,  to 
meet  the  doctor's  dog  ambling  across  the  porch. 

The  doctor  was  "  just  passing,"  and,  seeing  the 
light,  dropped  in  to  ascertain  its  cause — and,  he 
might  have  added,  to  tell  the  news.  He  had 
been  out  all  night — was  just  getting  home. 

"A  sad  night  of  it,  Bradfield  —  a  sad  night, 
Mis'  Carroll,"  he  said,  looking  hard  at  her  as 
he  stood  in  the  door.  "  I  never  closed  a  better 
man's  eyes  in  my  life  'n  I've  jest  now  closed. 
Elder  Billins  has  gone  to  join  the  congregation 
on  the  other  side.  Come  to  my  office  early  in 
the  evenin',  an'  seemed  to  be  tryin'  to  talk  an' 
couldn't — had  one  o'  them  heart-failin'  spells — 
so  I  give  him  some  drops,  an'  he  come  to  a  little, 
an'  I  drove  him  home,  an'  set  there  with  'im  a 
hour  or  so,  talkin'  along,  an'  he  listenin'  but  not 
sayin'  a  word,  an'  treckly  he  went  off  again  same 
way — not  a  rack  o'  pain,  smilin'  in  the  face — an' 
I  brought  'im  through  again,  an'  he  bettered 
up,  so  he  started  to  talk,  but  his  words,  straight 
enough  some  ways,  was  all  wrong  others.  Didn't 
seem  to  know  rightly  where  he  was  ;  'lowed  he 
was  in  yore  front  hall,  Mis'  Carroll,  an'  he  stuck 
to  it.     An'  so,  seem'  he  was  bad  off,  I  drove  out 


196  IN    SIMPKUSTSVILLE 

an'  fetched  in  a  couple  o'  the  neighbors  to  set 
with  him.  But,  time  we  got  there,  he  had  reached 
the  gates  an'  was  enterin'  in." 

Mrs.  Carroll's  face  was  rigid  and  white  as  she 
listened.  Neither  she  nor  Bradfield  spoke  for 
some  time  ;  but  finally  he  said,  slowly  : 

"  He  was  in  her  hall  to-night,  doctor,  set- 
tin'  an'  talkin' — an'  like  ez  not,  he  thought  he 
was  there  yet.  He  went  for  you  for  my  little 
Mamie.  She's  had  the  worst  attackt  o'  croup 
she's  ever  had  ;  but  Mis'  Carroll  has  nursed  her 
through  it.  But  I  reckon  this  night  '11  be  one 
we'll  both  remember  all  our  days."  He  looked 
at  her  as  he  spoke.  And  then  he  added,  with 
real  feeling  :  "  Pore  Billins  !  I  can't  rightly 
seem  to  realize  it.  Ez  good  a  man  ez  ever  walk- 
ed the  earth." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  doctor.  "I've  known  the 
ins  an'  outs  o'  Billins's  life  for  twenty  year,  off 
an'  on,  an'  I  tell  you  he  was  one  in  a  thousand." 

"  Yas,  he  was,"  said  Mrs.  Carroll. 


MISS  JEMIMA'S  VALENTINE 


MISS  JEMIMA'S   VALENTINE 


TWO  crimson  spots  appeared  upon  Miss 
Jemima's  pale  face  when  she  heard  the 
gate  -  latch  click.  She  knew  that  her 
brother  was  bringing  in  the  mail,  and,  as  he  en- 
tered the  room,  she  bent  lower  over  her  work, 
her  crochet-needle  flew  faster,  and  she  coughed 
a  slight,  nervous  cough.  But  she  did  not 
look  up. 

She  saw  without  looking  that  her  brother  held 
a  pile  of  valentines  in  his  hand,  and  she  knew 
that  when  presently  he  should  have  finished  dis- 
tributing them  to  his  eager  sons  and  daughters, 
her  nephews  and  nieces,  he  would  come  and 
bring  one  to  her — or  else  ?  he  would  not  do  this 
last.  It  was  this  uncertainty  that  deepened  the 
crimson  spots  upon  her  cheeks. 

If  there  was  one  for  her  he  would  presently 
come,  and,  leaning  over  her  shoulder,  he  would 
say,  as  he   dropped  upon  her  lap  the  largest, 


200  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

handsomest  of  them  all,  "  This  looks  mighty  sus- 
picious, Sis'  'Mimie,"  or,  "  We'll  have  to  find  out 
about  this,"  or  maybe,  as  he  presented  it,  he  would 
covertly  shield  her  by  addressing  himself  to  the 
younger  crowd  after  this  fashion  : 

"  Ef  I  was  a  lot  o'  boys  an'  girls,  an'  couldn't 
git  a  bigger  valentine  from  all  my  sweethearts 
an'  beaux  than  my  ol'  auntie  can  set  still  at 
home  an'  git,  why,  I'd  quit  tryin' — that's  what 
I  would." 

There  was  always  a  tenderness  in  the  brother's 
manner  when  he  handed  his  sister  her  valentine. 
He  had  brought  her  one  each  year  for  seven 
years  now,  and  after  the  first  time,  when  he  had 
seen  the  look  of  pain  and  confusion  that  had 
followed  his  playful  teasing,  he  had  never  more 
than  relieved  the  moment  by  a  passing  jest. 

The  regular  coming  of  "Aunt  Jemima's  val- 
entine" was  a  mystery  in  the  household. 

It  had  been  thirteen  years  since  she  had  quar- 
relled with  Eli  Taylor,  her  lover,  and  they  had 
parted  in  anger,  never  to  meet  again.  Since 
then  she  had  stayed  at  home  and  quietly  grown 
old. 

Fourteen  years  ago  she  had  been  in  the  flush 
of  this  her  only  romance,  and  St.  Valentine's 
Day  had  brought  a  great,  thick  envelope,  in 
which  lay,  fragrant  with  perfume,  a  gorgeous 


MISS   JEMIMA'S    VALENTINE  201 

valentine.  Upon  this  was  painted,  after  an  old 
Dresden  -  china  pattern,  a  beautiful  lady  with 
slender  waist  and  corkscrew  curls,  standing  be- 
side a  tall  cavalier,  who  doffed  his  hat  to  her  as 
he  presented  the  envelope  that  bore  her  name, 
so  finely  and  beautifully  written  that  only  very 
yonng  eyes  could  read  it  unaided. 

By  carefully  opening  this  tiny  envelope  one 
might  read  the  printed  rhyme  within — the  rhyme 
so  tender  and  loving  that  it  needed  only  the  in- 
scription of  a  name  on  the  flap  above  it  to  make 
it  all-sufficient  in  personal  application  to  even 
the  most  fastidious. 

This  gorgeous  valentine  was  so  artfully  con- 
structed that,  by  drawing  its  pictured  front  for- 
ward, it  could  be  made  to  stand  alone,  when  there 
appeared  a  fountain  in  the  background  and  a 
brilliant  peacock  with  argus-eyed  tail,  a  great  rose 
on  a  tiny  bush,  and  a  crescent  moon.  The  old- 
er children  had  been  very  small  when  this  re- 
splendent confection  had  come  into  their  home. 
Some  of  them  were  not  born,  but  they  had  all 
grown  up  in  the  knowledge  of  it. 

There  had  been  times  in  the  tender  memories 
of  all  of  them  when  "Aunt  'Mimie"  had  taken 
them  into  her  room,  locked  the  door,  and,  be- 
cause they  had  been  very  good,  let  them  take  a 
peep  at  her  beautiful  valentine,  which  she  kept 


202  IN"   SIMPKIXSVILLE 

carefully  hidden  away  in  her  locked  bureau 
drawer. 

They  had  even  on  occasions  been  allowed  to 
wash  their  hands  and  hold  it — just  a  minute. 

It  had  always  been  a  thing  to  wonder  over, 
and  once — but  this  was  the  year  it  came,  when 
her  sky  seemed  as  rosy  as  the  ribbon  she  wore 
about  her  waist — Miss  Jemima  had  stood  it  up 
on  the  whatnot  in  the  parlor  when  the  church 
sociable  met  at  her  brother's  house,  and  every- 
body in  town  had  seen  it,  while  for  her  it  made 
the  whole  room  beautiful. 

But  the  quarrel  had  soon  followed — Eli  had 
gone  away  in  anger — and  that  had  been  the  end. 

Disputes  over  trifles  are  the  hardest  to  mend, 
each  party  finding  it  hard  to  forgive  the  other 
for  being  angry  for  so  slight  a  cause. 

And  so  the  years  had  passed. 

For  six  long  years  the  beautiful  valentine  had 
lain  carefully  put  away.  For  five  years  Jemima 
had  looked  at  it  with  tearless  eyes  and  a  hard- 
ened heart.  And  then  came  the  memorable  first 
anniversary  when  the  children  of  the  household 
began  to  celebrate  the  day,  and  tiny,  comic-pict- 
ured pages  began  flitting  in  from  their  school 
sweethearts.  The  realization  of  the  new  era 
was  a  shock  to  Miss  Jemima.  In  the  youthful 
merriment  of  those  budding  romances  she  seemed 


MISS   JEMIMA'S    VALENTINE  203 

to  see  a  sort  of  reflection  of  her  own  long-ago 
joy,  and  in  the  faint  glow  of  it  she  felt  impelled 
to  go  to  her  own  room  and  to  lock  the  door  and 
look  at  the  old  valentine. 

With  a  new,  strange  tremor  about  her  heart 
and  an  unsteady  hand  she  took  it  out,  and  when 
in  the  light  of  awakened  emotion  she  saw  once 
more  its  time-stained  face  and  caught  its  musty 
odor,  she  seemed  to  realize  again  the  very  body 
of  her  lost  love,  and  for  the  first  time  in  all  the 
years  the  fountains  of  her  sorrow  were  broken 
up,  and  she  sobbed  her  tired  heart  out  over  the 
old  valentine. 

Is  there  a  dead-hearted  woman  in  all  God's 
beautiful  world,  I  wonder,  who  would  not  weep 
again,  if  she  could,  over  life's  yellowing  symbols 
— symbols  of  love  gone  by,  of  passion  cooled — 
who  would  not  feel  almost  as  if  in  the  recovery 
of  her  tears  she  had  found  joy  again  ? 

If  Miss  Jemima  had  not  found  joy,  she  had  at 
least  found  her  heart  once  more — and  sorrow. 
Her  life  had  been  for  so  long  a  dreary,  treeless 
plain  that,  in  the  dark  depth  of  the  valley  of 
sorrowing,  she  realized,  as  sometimes  only  from 
sorrow's  deeps  poor  mortals  may  know  it,  the  pos- 
sible height  of  bliss. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  separation,  she 
clasped  the  valentine  to  her  bosom  and  called 


204  IX   SIMPKINSVILLE 

her  lover's  name  over  and  over  again,  sobbing  it, 
without  hope,  as  one  in  the  death-agony.  But 
such  emotion  is  not  of  death.  Is  it  not,  rather, 
a  rebirth — a  rebirth  of  feeling  ?  So  it  was  with 
Miss  Jemima,  and  the  heart -stillness  that  had 
been  her  safety  during  all  these  years  would  not 
return  to  her  again.  There  would  never  more 
be  a  time  when  her  precious  possession  would 
not  have  a  sweet  and  vital  meaning  to  her — when 
it  would  not  be  a  tangible  embodiment  of  the 
holiest  thing  her  life  had  known. 

From  this  time  forward,  stirred  by  the  budding 
romances  about  her,  Miss  Jemima  would  repair 
for  refuge  and  a  meagre  comfort  to  that  which, 
while  in  its  discolored  and  fading  face  it  denied 
none  of  life's  younger  romance,  still  gave  her 
back  her  own. 

The  woman  of  forty  may  never  realize  her 
years  in  the  presence  of  her  contemporaries. 
Forty  women  of  forty  might  easily  feel  young 
enough  to  scoff  at  the  bald  head,  and  deserve  to 
be  eaten  by  bears — but  thirty-nine  with  a  bud- 
ding-maid-for-fortieth  scoffer  ?    Never  ! 

Miss  Jemima,  in  her  suddenly  realized  young- 
love  setting,  had  become,  to  her  own  conscious- 
ness, old  and  of  a  date  gone  by.  "Aunt  Jemima" 
was  naturally  regarded  by  her  blooming  nephews 
and  nieces,  as  well  as  by  their  intimates,  who 


MISS  JEMIMA'S   VALENTINE  205 

wore  their  incipient  mustaches  still  within  their 
conscious  top  lips,  or  dimples  dancing  in  their 
ruddy  cheeks,  quite  in  the  same  category  as 
Mrs.  Gibbs  who  was  sixty,  or  any  of  their  aunts 
and  grandmothers  who  sat  serenely  in  daguer- 
reotype along  the  parlor  mantel. 

But  there  is  apt  to  come  a  time  in  the  life  of 
the  live  single  woman  of  forty — if  she  be  alive 
enough — when,  in  the  face  of  even  negative  and 
affectionate  disparagement,  she  is  moved  to  de- 
clare herself. 

Perhaps  there  may  be  some  who  would  say 
that  this  declaration  savors  of  earth.  Even  so, 
the  earth  is  the  Lord's.  It  is  one  thing  to  be  a 
flower  pasted  in  a  book  and  quite  another  to  be 
the  bud  a  maiden  wears — one  thing  to  be  To- 
day, and  another  to  be  Yesterday. 

One  thing,  indeed,  it  was  to  own  a  yellow, 
time  -  stained  valentine,  and  quite  a  different 
one  to  be  of  the  dimpled  throng  who  crowded 
the  Simpkinsville  post  -  office  on  Valentine's 
Day. 

"  I  reckon  them  young  ones  would  think  it 
was  perfec'ly  re-dic'lous  ef  I  was  to  git  a  valen- 
tine at  my  time  o'  life,"  Miss  Jemima  said, 
aloud,  to  her  looking-glass  one  morning.  It 
was  the  day  before  St.  Valentine's,  of  the  year 
following  that  which  held  her  day  of  tears. 


206  IN"   SIMPKHSTSVILLE 

"But  I'll  shoiv  'em,"  she  added,  with  some 
resolution,  as  she  turned  to  her  bureau  drawer. 

And  she  did  show  them.  On  the  next  day  a 
great  envelope  addressed  to  Miss  Jemima  Martha 
Sprague  came  in  with  the  package  of  lesser 
favors,  and  Miss  Jemima  suddenly  found  her- 
self the  absorbing  centre  of  a  new  interest — an 
interest  that,  after  having  revolved  about  her  a 
while,  flew  off  in  suspicion  towards  every  super- 
annuated bachelor  or  widower  within  a  radius  of 
thirty  miles  of  Simpkinsville. 

It  had  been  a  great  moment  for  Miss  Jemima 
when  the  valentine  came  in,  and  a  trying  one  when, 
with  genuine  old-time  blushes,  she  had  been  con- 
strained to  refuse  to  open  it  for  the  crowd. 

How  she  felt  an  hour  later  when,  in  the  se- 
crecy of  her  own  chamber,  she  took  from  its  new 
envelope  her  own  old  self -sent  valentine,  only 
He  who  has  tender  knowledge  of  maidenly  re- 
serves and  sorrows  will  ever  know. 

There  was  something  in  her  face  when  she  re- 
appeared in  the  family  circle  that  forbade  a  cruel 
pursuit  of  the  theme,  and  so,  after  a  little  playful 
bantering,  the  subject  was  dropped. 

But  the  incident  had  lifted  her  from  one  con- 
dition into  quite  another  in  the  family  regard, 
and  Miss  Jemima  found  herself  unconsciously 
living  up  to  younger  standards. 


MISS  JEMIMA'S  VALENTINE  207 

But  this  was  seven  years  ago,  and  the  mysteri- 
ous valentine  had  become  a  yearly  fact. 

There  had  never  been  any  explanations. 
When  pressed  to  the  wall  Miss  Jemima  had,  in- 
deed, been  constrained  to  confess  that  "  cert'n'y — 
why  of  co'se  every  valentine  she  had  ever  got  had 
been  sent  her  by  a  man."  (How  sweet  and  sad 
this  truth  !) 

"And  are  all  the  new  ones  as  pretty  as  your 
lovely  old  one,  Aunt  'Mimie  ?" 

To  this  last  query  she  had  carefully  replied : 

"I  'ain't  never  got  none  thet  ain't  every  bit 
an'  grain  ez  purty  ez  that  one — not  a  one." 

"An'  why  don't  you  show  'em  to  us,  then  ?" 

Such  obduracy  was  indeed  hard  to  comprehend. 

If,  as  the  years  passed,  her  brother  began  to 
suspect,  he  made  no  sign  of  it,  save  in  an  added 
tenderness.     And,  of  course,  he  could  not  know. 

On  the  anniversary  upon  which  this  little 
record  of  her  life  has  opened,  the  situation  was 
somewhat  exceptional. 

The  valentine  had  hitherto  always  been  mailed 
in  Simpkinsville — her  own  town.  This  post-mark 
had  been  noted  and  commented  upon,  and  yet 
it  had  seemed  impossible  to  have  it  otherwise. 
But  this  year,  in  spite  of  many  complications 
and  difficulties,  she  had  resolved  that  the  enve- 
lope should  tell  a  new  story. 


208  IN   SIMPKIKSVILLE 

The  farthest  point  from  which,  within  her 
possible  acquaintance,  it  would  naturally  hail 
was  the  railroad  town  of — let  us  call  it  Hope. 

The  extreme  difficulty  in  the  case  lay  in  the 
fact  that  the  post-office  here  was  kept  by  her  old 
lover,  Eli  Taylor. 

Here  for  ten  years  he  had  lived  his  reticent 
bachelor  days,  selling  ploughs  and  garden  seed 
and  cotton  prints  and  patent  medicines,  and  keep- 
ing post-office  in  a  small  corner  of  his  store. 

Everybody  knows  how  a  spot  gazed  at  intently 
for  a  long  time  changes  color — from  green  to  red 
and  then  to  white. 

As  Miss  Jemima  pondered  upon  the  thought 
of  sending  herself  a  valentine  through  her  old 
lover's  hands,  the  color  of  the  scheme  began  to 
change  from  impossible  green  to  ros}'  red. 

The  point  of  objection  became,  in  the  myste- 
rious evolution,  its  objective  point. 

Instead  of  dreading,  she  began  ardently  to  de- 
sire this  thing. 

By  the  only  possible  plan  through  which  she 
could  manage  secretly  to  have  the  valentine 
mailed  in  Hope — a  plan  over  which  she  had  lost 
sleep,  and  in  which  she  had  been  finally  aided 
by  an  illiterate  colored  servant — it  must  reach 
her  on  the  day  before  Valentine's.  This  day  had 
come  and  gone,  and  her  treasure  had  not  returned 


MISS   JEMIMA'S   VALENTINE  209 

to  her.  Had  the  negro  failed  to  mail  it  ?  Had 
it  remained  all  night  in  the  post-office — in  pos- 
session of  her  lover  ?    Would  she   ever  see   it 

again  ? 

******* 

Would  her  brother  ever,  ever,  ever  get  through 
his  trifling  with  the  children  and  finish  distrib- 
uting their  valentines  ? 

It  was  not  very  long  to  wait — a  minute,  per- 
haps half  a  minute — and  yet  it  seemed  an  age 
before  the  distribution  was  over,  and  she  felt 
rather  than  saw  her  brother  moving  in  her  direc- 
tion. 

"Bigger  an'  purtier  one  'n  ever  for  Aunt  'Mi- 
mie  this  time — looks  to  me  like,"  he  said,  as  at 
last  he  laid  the  great  envelope  upon  her  trem- 
bling knee. 

"  Don't  reckon  it's  anything  extry — in  particu- 
lar," she  answered,  not  at  all  knowing  what  she 
said,  as  she  continued  her  work,  leaving  the  val- 
entine where  he  had  dropped  it ;  not  touching 
it,  indeed,  until  she  presently  wound  up  her 
yarn  in  answer  to  the  supper -bell.  Then  she 
took  it,  with  her  work-basket,  into  her  own 
room,  and,  dropping  it  into  her  upper  bureau 
draAver,  turned  the  key. 

The  moment  when  she  broke  the  seal  each 

14 


210  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

year — late  at  night,  alone  in  her  locked  cham- 
ber— had  always  been  a  sad  one  to  Miss  Jemima, 
and  to-night  it  was  even  sadder  than  ever.  She 
had  never  before  known  how  she  cared  for  this 
old  love-token. 

As  she  sat  to-night  looking  at  the  outside  of 
the  envelope,  turning  it  over  and  over  in  her 
thin  hands,  great  hot  tears  fell  upon  it  and  ran 
down  upon  her  fingers  ;  but  she  did  not  heed 
them.  It  was,  indeed,  a  meagre  little  embodi- 
ment of  the  romance  of  a  life  ;  but,  such  as  it 
was,  she  would  not  part  with  it.  She  would 
never  send  it  out  from  her  again — never,  never, 
never. 

It  was  even  dearer  now  than  ever  before,  after 
this  recent  j)assage  through  her  lover's  hands. 
She  raised  it  lovingly  and  laid  it  against  her 
cheek.  Could  he  have  handled  it  and  passed  it 
on  without  a  thought  of  her  ?  Impossible.  And 
since  he  had  thought  of  her,  what  must  have 
been  the  nature  of  his  thoughts  ?  Was  he  jeal- 
ous— jealous  because  somebody  was  sending  his 
old  sweetheart  a  valentine  ? 

This  year's  envelope,  selected  with  great  pains 
and  trouble  from  a  sample  catalogue  and  ordered 
from  a  distant  city,  was  a  fine  affair,  profusely 
decorated  with  love  symbols. 

For  a  long  time  Miss  Jemima  sat  enjoying  a 


MISS   JEMIMAS   VALENTIXE  211 

strange  sense  of  nearness  to  her  lover,  before  she 
felt  inclined  to  confront  the  far-away  romance 
typified  by  the  yellowed  sheet  within.  And  yet 
she  wanted  to  see  even  this  again — to  realize  it. 

And  so,  with  thoughts  both  eager  and  fearful, 
she  finally  inserted  a  hair-pin  carefully  in  the  en- 
velope, ripping  it  open  delicately  on  two  sides, 
so  that  the  valentine  might  come  out  without  in- 
jury to  its  frail,  perforated  edges.  Then,  care- 
fully holding  its  sides  apart,  she  shook  it. 

And  now — ? 

One  of  God's  best  traits  is  that  He  doesn't  tell 
all  He  knows — and  sees. 

How  Miss  Jemima  felt  or  acted — whether  she 
screamed  or  fainted — no  one  will  ever  know, 
when,  instead  of  the  familiar  pictured  thing, 
there  fell  into  her  lap  a  beautiful  brand  -  new 
valentine. 

It  was  certainly  a  long  time  before  she  recov- 
ered herself  enough  to  take  the  strange  thing 
into  her  hands,  and  when  she  did  so  it  was 
with  fingers  that  trembled  so  violently  that  a  bit 
of  paper  that  came  within  it  fluttered  and  fell 
beyond  her  reach.  There  it  lay  for  fully  several 
minutes  before  she  had  strength  to  move  from 
her  seat  to  recover  it. 

There  was  writing  on  the  fluttering  fragment, 
but  what  it  was,  and  why  Miss  Jemima  wept 


212  IN  SIMPKIKSVILLE 

over  it  and  read  it  again  and  again,  are  other 
trifling  things  that  perhaps  God  does  well  not 
to  tell. 

The  details  of  other  people's  romances  are  not 
always  interesting  to  outsiders. 

However,  for  a  better  understanding  of  this 
particular  case  it  may  be  well  to  know  that  the 
servant  who  took  charge  of  the  old  lover's  room 
in  Hope,  and  who  had  an  investigating  way  with 
her,  produced  seven  or  eight  torn  scraps  of  paper 
collected  at  this  period  from  his  scrap-basket,  on 
which  were  written  bits  of  broken  sentences  like 
the  following :  " — sending  you  this  new  valen- 
tine just  as  hearty  as  I  sent  the  old  one  fourteen 
years — " 

"You  sha'n't  never  want  for  a  fresh  one  again 
every  year  long  as  I  live,  unless  you  take — " 

" — if  you  want  the  old  one  back  again,  unless 
you  take  me  along  with  it." 

It  is  generally  conceded  that  one  of  the  lowest 
things  that  even  a  very  depraved  and  unprinci- 
pled person  ever  does  is  to  intercept  and  read 
other  people's  letters.  To  print  them  or  other- 
wise make  them  public  is  a  thing  really  too 
contemptible  to  contemplate  in  ordinary  circum- 
stances. But  this  case,  if  intelligently  consider- 
ed, seems  somewhat  exceptional,  for,  be  it  borne 
in  mind,  all  these  writings,  without  exception, 


MISS   JEMIMA  S    VALENTINE  213 

and  a  few  others  too  sacred  to  produce  even  here, 
are  the  things  that  Eli  Taylor,  postmaster,  did 
not  send  to  his  old  sweetheart,  Jemima  Martha 
Sprague. 

Miss  Jemima  always  burned  her  scraps,  and 
so,  even  had  it  seemed  well  to  condescend  to 
seek  similar  negative  testimony  concerning  her 
laboriously  written  reply,  it  would  have  been 
quite  impossible  to  find  any.  Certain  it  is,  how- 
ever, that  she  posted  a  note  on  the  followiug 
day,  and  that  a  good  many  interesting  things 
happened  in  quick  succession  after  this. 

And  then — 

There  was  a  little,  quiet,  middle-aged  wedding 
in  the  church  on  Easter  Sunday.  It  was  the 
old  lover's  idea  to  have  it  then,  as  he  said  their 
happiness  was  a  resurrection  from  the  dead,  and 
it  was  befitting  to  celebrate  it  at  the  blessed 
Easter  season. 

Miss  Jemima  showed  her  new  valentine  to  the 
family  before  the  wedding  came  off,  but,  in  spite 
of  all  their  coaxing  and  begging,  she  observed  a 
rigid  reticence  in  regard  to  all  those  that  had 
come  between  that  and  the  old  one.  And  so, 
seeing  the  last  one  actually  in  evidence,  and  re- 
joicing in  her  happiness,  they  only  smiled  and 
whispered  that  they  supposed  he  and  she  had 
been  "quar'lin'  it  out  on  them  valentines,  year 


214  IN   SIMPKIXSVILLE 

by  year,  and  on'y  now  got  to  the  place  where 
they  could  make  up." 

The  old  man,  Eli,  in  spite  of  his  indomitable 
pride,  had  come  out  of  his  long  silence  with  all 
due  modesty,  blaming  himself  for  many  things. 

"I  ain't  fitten  for  you,  Jemimy,  honey,  no 
rao'n  I  was  fo'teen  year  ago,"  he  said,  while  his 
arm  timidly  sought  her  shoulder  the  night  before 
the  wedding,  "but  ef  you  keered  enough  about 
me  to  warm  over  the  one  little  valentine  I  sent 
you  nigh  on  to  fifteen  year  ago,  and  to  make  out 
to  live  on  it,  I  reckon  I  can  keep  you  supplied 
with  jest  ez  good  diet  ez  that — fresh  every  day  an' 
hour.  But  befo'  I  take  you  into  church  I  want 
to  call  yo'  attention  to  the  fac'  thet  I'm  a  criminal 
befo'  the  law,  li'ble  to  the  state's-prison  for  open- 
in' yo'  mail — an'  ef  you  say  so,  why,  I'll  haf  to  go." 

"  Well,  Eli,"  Miss  Jemima  answered,  quite 
seriously,  "ef  you're  li'ble  to  state's-prison  for 
what  you  done,  I  don't  know  but  I'm  worthy  to 
go  to  a  hotter  place — for  the  deceit  I've  prac- 
tised. Ef  actions  speak  louder  than  words,  I've 
cert'n'y  been  guilty  of  an  annual  lie  which  I've 
in  a  manner  swo'e  to  every  day  I've  lived  up  to 
it.  Still,  I  observed  all  the  honesty  I  could. 
Nights  the  old  valentine  would  be  out,  I  never 
could  sleep  good,  an'  they  was  times  when  I  was 
tempted  to  put  blank  sheets  in  the  envelope,  an' 


MISS   JEMIMA'S   VALENTINE  215 

ef  I  had  V  done  it  I  don't  know  whether  the 
truth  would  V  prevailed  under  the  children's 
quizzin'  or  not.  Children  are  mighty  gifted  in 
puttin'  leadin'  questions.  We  are  weak  creatures, 
Eli,  an'  prone  to  sin.  Yas,  takin'  it  all  'round, 
I  reckon  I'm  a  worse  criminal  'n  you — an'  ef  I 
got  my  dues,  I'd  be — " 

"  Well,"  said  Eli,  "  I  reckon,  ef  the  truth  Avas 
told,  the  place  where  we  jest  nachelly  both  b'long 
is  the  insane  asylum — for  the  ejiots  we've  acted. 
When  I  reflect  thet  I  might  'a'  been  ez  happy  ez  I 
am  now  fo'teen  year  ago,  an'  think  about  all  the 
time  we've  lost —  Of  co'se,  honey,  I  know  I  had 
no  earthly  right  to  open  yo'  valentine,  an'  yet — " 

"  Where'd  we  be  now,  ef  you  hadn't  've  opened 
it,  Eli  ?" 

" — or  ef  you  hadn't  've  sent  it  to  me,  honey, 
directed  to  yo'  dear  self,  with  a  J  for  Jemimy 
different  from  anybody  else's  J's  on  earth." 

"Why,  Eli  !     You  don't  mean—" 

"Yas,  I  do,  too.  I  knowed  that  flag-topped 
J  of  yores,  jest  ez  soon  ez — " 

"  But,  Eli,  I  feel  awful !" 

"You  needn't,  dearie.     I  don't." 

And  he  kissed  her — square  on  the  lips. 

"  An'  I  don't  now,  neither." 

And  he  did  it  a^ain. 


A  SLENDER  ROMANCE 


A  SLENDER   ROMANCE 


DEACON  HATFIELD  was  forty-five  years 
old  and  a  bachelor.     And  he  was  a  good 
bachelor.     Now,  a  good  bachelor   is  an 
object  to  sigh  over  so  long  as  there  is  a  worthy 
unmarried  maid  available. 

At  least,  such  is  the  feeling  in  Simpkinsville. 
And  so  the  best  Simpkinsville  folk,  who  unani- 
mously regarded  the  deacon  as  one  good  hus- 
band gone  wrong,  sighed  as  they  passed  from 
contemplation  of  his  wasted  domestic  qualities 
to  the  solitary  life  of  a  certain  Miss  Euphemia 
Twiggs,  commonly  known  as  "Miss  Phemie," 
who,  during  her  nearly  forty  years  of  residence 
among  them,  had  proved  by  many  signs  her  en- 
tire fitness  for  the  position  of  wife  to  the  deacon. 
The  deacon  was  mild  and  gentle  of  mien.  Miss 
Phemie  was  a  woman  of  decision.  She  would 
have  given  him  just  the  accent  he  seemed  to 
require  for  his  full  perfection. 


220  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

And  then  she  needed — if  such  things  are  ever 
needs — a  home-setting  and  personal  endorsement. 
It  is  one  thing  to  be  endorsed  by  a  community, 
and  quite  another  to  have  the  individual  endorse- 
ment and  protection  of  a  special  and  particular 
man.  The  woman  thus  equipped  presents  her 
credentials  every  time  she  gives  her  name.  For 
Mrs.  John  Smith  and  all  that  relates  to  her,  see 
John  Smith,  Esquire.  Now  John  Smith's  name 
may  not  have  great  value  among  men ;  but  his 
wife,  simply  because  she  may  appropriate  it,  has 
a  certain  social  prestige  not  quite  attainable  by 
the  unmarried  woman,  even  though  she  be  far 
her  superior. 

At  least,  so  it  is  in  Simpkinsville.  So  are  so- 
cial values  in  some  of  the  world's  secluded  spots 
still  reckoned  upside  down. 

For  many  years  the  good  people  of  the  good 
little  village  had  regarded  Miss  Phemie  and  the 
deacon  as  definitely  in  need  of  each  other.  It 
would  never  have  been  granted  for  a  moment 
that  either  could  need  any  one  else.  The  deacon 
had  seen  the  young  women  of  the  community 
grow  up,  blossom  into  beauty,  and  marry,  one 
by  one,  and  he  had  stood  aside  and  let  them 
depart. 

Miss  Euphemia  had  likewise  seen  men  come 
and  go.     It  is  true,  however,  that  she  had  been 


A  SLENDER   ROMANCE  221 

several  times  "  kep'  company  with"  in  years 
past,  and  once,  at  least,  unequivocally  addressed 
by  a  worthy  man,  now  the  father  of  one  of  Simp- 
kinsville's  leading  families.  This  of  course  gave 
her  a  certain  reserve  of  dignity,  to  be  drawn  upon 
on  occasion,  that  was  in  itself  a  distinction. 

Nevertheless,  she  remained  "  Euphemia  0. 
Twiggs"  on  both  church-books  and  tax-roll ;  for, 
be  it  understood,  Miss  Twiggs  was  no  pauper. 

Her  income  of  four  or  five  hundred  dollars  a 
year,  varying  with  the  crops,  gave  her  a  finan- 
cial independence  that  went  far  to  dignify  her 
position.  And  yet,  so  playfully  is  the  single  life 
regarded  in  some  localities,  and  so  delicate  was 
Miss  Euphemia's  poise  between  the  independent 
single  woman  she  consciously  was  and  the  pos- 
sible heroine  of  an  always  imminent  romance, 
that  the  village  folk  never  lost  an  opportunity 
of  tipping  the  balance  for  their  own  amusement. 
Thus  when,  at  one  of  the  church  sociables,  she 
was  prevailed  upon  to  sing  Tennyson's  "Song 
of  the  Brook,"  a  favorite  number  in  the  village 
repertoire,  on  her  rendering  of  the  words, 

"  For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever," 

there  was  a  suppressed  titter  among  the  young 
and  giddy  set  in  the  back  of  the  assembly,  and 


222  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

one  or  two  of  the  more  adventurous  craned  their 
necks  to  look  at  the  deacon,  who  was  observed 
to  clear  his  throat.  But  this  may  have  been  ac- 
cidental. Certainly  Miss  Euphemia  was  wholly 
unaware  of  any  personal  application  of  her  song 
to  herself. 

But  another  thing  was  equally  sure  :  the  dea- 
con and  she  were  distinctly  aware  of  each  other. 
Indeed,  it  would  have  been  tacitly  conceded  by 
every  one  that  for  either  to  marry  a  third  per- 
son would  have  been  an  act  approaching  dis- 
courtesy to  the  one  remaining. 

Still,  be  it  said  to  their  credit,  both  had  been 
frequently  known  separately  to  declare  their  un- 
changeable intentions  of  remaining  forever  sin- 
gle. But  this  was  always  under  pressure  of  the 
village  bantering  ;  and  what  is  the  value  of  such 
protestation  from  man  or  woman  pressed  to  the 
wall  ? 

There  had  possibly  been  moments  of  annoy- 
ance in  the  lives  of  each  of  these  good  people 
when  the  marriage  of  either  to  a  third  person 
would  have  been  a  definite  relief  to  the  other. 
As  one  of  Miss  Euphemia's  friends  had  said  to 
her  on  one  occasion  : 

"TV  ain't  no  fun  in  bavin"  your  whole  live- 
long life  overshaddered  by  a  man  with  no  earth- 
ly intentions." 


A   SLENDER   ROMANCE  223 

To  which  way  of  stating  the  case  Miss  Eu- 
phemia  had  replied  with  some  spirit : 

"Which  ef  he  had  any  intentions,  he'd  be 
welcome  to  keep  'em  to  hisself." 

But,  again,  what  woman  could  have  been  ex- 
pected to  say  less  under  the  circumstances  ? 

There  had  been  other  old  bachelors  and  maid- 
ens in  and  about  Simpkinsville.  Indeed,  several 
were  there  now,  but  to  all  excepting  these  two 
were  attached  their  individual  romances,  long- 
ago  finished  in  tragedy,  or  still  pending. 

There  was  actually,  as  she  herself  asserted, 
"nothing"  between  Miss  Euphemia  and  the  dea- 
con, not  even  a  professed  personal  friendship. 
The  point  was  that  there  ought  to  be.  He  had 
never  paid  her  a  visit  in  his  life.  He  had  sim- 
ply for  twenty-five  years,  more  or  less,  sat  in  the 
pew  behind  her  at  church,  found  the  hymns  as 
they  were  given  out,  and  then,  leaning  forward, 
changed  hymn-books  with  her. 

That  was  all. 

This  was  only  the  part  of  good  manners,  ac- 
cording to  the  Simpkinsville  code  polite,  and  he 
would  have  done  the  same  for  any  other  woman 
sitting  unattended  in  the  pew  before  him. 

For  her  to  decline  his  book  would  have  been 
embarrassing  at  first,  and,  as  the  years  passed,  it 
would  have  been  serious  to  do  so.     Indeed,  it 


224  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

would  easily  have  been  construed  into  refusing  a 
man  before  he  had  offered  himself.  And  not  en- 
tirely without  cause,  either,  as  an  ulterior  mo- 
tive would  have  been  immediately  apparent,  and 
there  was  absolutely  nothing  back  of  the  small 
courtesy  but  himself — himself,  eligible,  not  ask- 
ing for  her. 

So  Miss  Euphemia  continued  to  sing  from  the 
deacon's  book,  and  the  years  went  on.  A  little 
thin  spot  was  beginning  to  show  on  the  back  of 
the  deacon's  head,  and  a  tiny  hollow,  correspond- 
ing with  the  one  at  the  base  of  her  throat,  was 
coming  in  between  the  cords  at  the  back  of  Miss 
Euphemia's  neck.  It  was  as  if  Time,  in  passing 
down  the  aisle,  had  laid  his  palm  lightly  upon 
the  man's  pate,  and  then,  in  a  spirit  of  mischiev- 
ous spite,  had  jabbed  the  back  of  the  woman's 
sensitive  neck  with  his  peaked  thumb. 

Some  of  Time's  revenges  are  so  shabby  that  we 
find  it  hard  to  forgive  them  in  one  so  old — one 
who  ought,  centuries  ago,  to  have  learned  to  be 
kindly  at  least. 

The  deacon  saw  the  old  man's  finger  -  mark 
upon  the  slender  neck  before  him,  but  Miss 
Euphemia,  seated  in  front  of  him,  did  not  see 
the  threatening  baldness  of  his  head.  Still,  of 
course,  she  knew  it  was  there.  Everybody  in 
Simpkinsville  knew  just  how  bald,  or  nearly  bald, 


'  i  &-^  "™ 


A    SLENDEK   ROMANCE  225 

or  how  far  from  it,  everybody  else  was.  They 
even  knew  who  secretly  pulled  out  gray  hairs, 
and  how  old  some  people  were  who  would  never 
be  bald  or  gray,  because  it  didn't  run  in  their 
families  to  be  so,  and  their  luxuriant  locks  were 
held  at  a  corresponding  discount  or  premium  ac- 
cording to  the  point  of  observation. 

There  was  no  reason  up  to  this  point  in  their 
lives  to  believe  that  either  Miss  Euphemia  or  the 
deacon  was  especially  interested  in  the  fact  that 
the  other  was  growing  old,  or,  indeed,  that  they 
were  particularly  interested  in  each  other  at  all. 
If  they  had  been  let  alone,  it  seems  quite  proba- 
ble that  they  would  have  continued  to  the  end  of 
their  lives  to  sing  from  each  other's  books  in 
their  adjoining  pews,  and  this  one  point  of  neigh- 
borly contact  in  their  separate  lives  might  never 
have  been  made  a  pivotal  one,  as  it  was  destined 
to  become  through  the  playful  intermeddling  of 
interested  friends. 

It  was  the  minister  who  began  it.  At  a  little 
supper  spread  for  the  officers  of  the  church  at 
the  house  of  one  of  the  elders,  he  was  the  most 
frivolous  guest  present.  The  popular  after-din- 
ner "  curse-word  story  "  of  the  cloth  would  never 
have  been  tolerated  in  Simpkinsville,  even  with 
its  naughty  periods  reduced  to  whispers.  And  so 
the  dominie's  mischievous  spirit  found  vent  in 

15 


226  IN   SIMPKIJSTSVILLE 

missiles  of  inordinate  teasing.  After  spending 
his  lighter  fire  in  several  directions,  he  said,  fi- 
nally, with  an  assumption  of  great  seriousness, 
addressing  his  opposite  neighbor,  the  schoolmas- 
ter of  the  village,  and  turning  his  back  upon  the 
deacon  as  he  spoke  : 

"  I've  been  try  in'  to  make  a  mathematical  cal- 
culation, Brother  Clark,  and  I  think  I'll  have  to 
get  you  to  come  in  with  your  arithmetic  and  help 
me  out.  I'd  like  to  estimate  exactly  how  many 
times  in  twenty-three  years  Deacon  Hatfield  and 
Miss  Euphemia  Twiggs  have  changed  hymn- 
books." 

Of  course  there  was  boisterous  laughter  at  this 
proposition  ;  but  the  Kev.  Mr.  Bowen,  who  spoke 
as  one  with  authority,  quickly  restored  silence 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"No,  I'm  not  a-jokin',"  he  continued;  "I've 
been  a-puzzlin'  over  this  calculation  for  some 
time.  Twenty-three  years  of  52  Sundays  makes 
1196.     But,  you  see,  there's — 

"  Wait ;  le'  me  get  out  my  pencil  an'  paper 
again.  I  thought  I  had  them  figgurs  all  worked  out 
in  my  mind,  but  they're  a  little  too  many  for  me. 

"  Here  it  is.  Now,  I'll  call  'em  out  as  I  put 
'em  down  :  Once  every  Sunday  for  23  years  would 
be  1196  times  ;  but,  yon  see,  there's  three  hymns 
sung  every  Sunday  mornin',  an'  two  every  Sun- 


A   SLENDER   ROMANCE  227 

day  evening  an'  three  at  prayer-meetin'.  That 
makes  eight  book-swappiu's  for  e\ery  week  for 
singin' ;  an'  conntin'  in  the  useless  handin'  back 
o'  the  book  at  every  mornin'  service — what  I'd 
designate  as  a  empty  swap — Avhy,  that  makes  nine 
a  week.  Now,  nine  times  1196  comes  to  10,764, 
which,  added  to  special  meetin's  that's  been  held 
throughout  the  year,  an'  such  little  extries  as  the 
singin'  of  doxologies  —  excepting  of  co'se,  the 
long  metre,  which  they  do  manage  to  worry 
through  without  changin'  books  ;  an'  I  confess  to 
you  now  that  I  have  sometimes  given  out  doxol- 
ogies of  other  metres  just  to  see  'em  swap  books, 
they  do  do  it  so  purty — "  He  paused  here  in 
deliberate  invitation  of  the  laughter  that  fol- 
lowed. "  I  say,  allowin'  for  all  such  extries,  an' 
what  time  there  may  be  over  and  above  twenty- 
three  years,  which  there  is,  more  or  less,  with 
sech  odds  an'  ends  as  an  occasional  leap-year 
Sunday  thrown  in,  if  my  arithmetic  is  anyway 
right — why,  they're  consid'ble  past  the  12,000 
notch,  easy. 

"  Now,  the  next  question  is — an'  maybe  this  is 
mo'  a  question  in  algebra  than  it  is  of  arithme- 
tic, 'cause  there's  a  unknown  quantity  somewhere 
in  it — the  next  question  is,  how  many  of  such 
open  attentions  as  this — which  we  all  know  to 
be  entirely  unnecessary,  as  both  parties  can  read 


228  IK   SIMPKINSVILLE 

both  words  and  numbers  at  sight — how  many  of 
such  attentions,  I  say,  does  it  take  to  be  equivalent 
to  an  open  an'  above-boa'd  proposal  of  marriage  ? 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  it  wouldn't  be  any  more 
than  fair  to  require  tbat  after  ten  or  twelve  thou- 
sand times  there  ought  to  be  an  understanding 
either  to  have  'em  mean  somethin'  or  quit — one  ! 

"  Now,  what  do  you  say  ?  I  put  it  to  vote,  an' 
if  there  is  a  tie,  why,  I  say,  give  Brother  Hatfield 
the  castin'  vote.  Otherwise,  let  him  maintain 
the  same  discreet  silence  he's  been  maintainin' 
these  twenty-three  years  an'  over." 

He  paused  here  as  if  to  take  breath,  where- 
upon the  entire  party,  convulsed  with  laughter 
throughout,  burst  into  most  uproarious  applause ; 
all  excepting  the  deacon,  whose  usually  pale 
face  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a  fibrous  and 
gnarled  little  beet  lifted  from  the  soaked  earth 
after  a  shower,  as  he  sat  grinning  helplessly  in 
the  midst  of  his  tormentors.  For  of  course  all 
were  with  the  minister  in  anything  he  might 
dare  in  behalf  of  their  long-desired  match. 

Seeing  his  advantage,  he  was  soon  pursuing  it 
again  : 

"But,  my  brethren,  before  the  votin'  com- 
mences," he  interrupted,  securing  silence  now  by 
assuming  for  the  moment  his  ministerial  voice — 
"before  the  votin'  begins,  I  say,  I'd  like  to  call 


A   SLENDER   ROMANCE  229 

attention  to  one  or  two  other  points  in  this  case. 
I  have  ascertained  by  exact  measurement  with  a 
spirit-level — which  I  felt  free  to  do,  bein'  your 
spiritual  adviser — I  have  ascertained  that  the  top 
edge  of  the  back  of  Miss  Euphemia's  pew  is  worn 
down  a  little  over  an  inch  in  exac'ly  the  spot 
where  those  twelve  thousand  passin's  of  hymn- 
books  have  taken  place.  Now,  takin'  that  fig- 
ur'tively  and  as  a  basis  of  mathematical  calcu- 
lations at  once,  it  seems  to  me  that  we  could 
safely  say  that  in  time  this  romance,  if  left  to  its 
own  co'se,  would  finally  wear  away  all  barriers 
'twixt  the  two  pews.  In  time,  I  say,  but  how 
much  time  9     That's  the  mathematical  question. 

"Even  grantin'  that  Miss  Euphemia  an' 
Brother  Hatfield  have  found  the  secret  of  per- 
petual youth,  ain't  there  somethin'  due  to  their 
friends  ?  I,  for  one,  would  like  to  witness  the 
happy  end  of  this  love-affair,  but  its  present 
progress  is  too  slow  for  my  mortal  life.  Twenty- 
three  years  to  the  square  inch  is  pretty  slow  for 
a  high-backed  pew. 

"  Now,  another  thing.  Of  co'se  we're  not  goin' 
to  be  too  personal  in  this  matter,  but  I'll  wager 
right  now  that  if  we  were  to  examine  the  under- 
side of  Brother  Hatfield's  right  coat-sleeve,  we'd 
find  it  wo'e  pretty  thin,  if  not  darned. 

"Don't   put  down  your  knife,  deacon.     We 


230  IK   SIMPKIKSVILLE 

ain't  a-goin'  to  requi'e  yon  to  show  it.  We  ain't 
a-goin'  to  exceed  the  bounds  of  politeness. 

"But  I  say,  my  brethren,  I  don't  doubt  the 
darn  is  there.  An'  f  urthermo'e — now  this  part 
I'm  a-comin'  to  now  is  a  fact.  You  see,  Miss 
Euphemia  is  sort  o'  cousin  to  my  wife's  sister-in- 
law,  so  this  is  all  in  the  family.  An'  f urthermo'e, 
I  say,  my  wife  tells  me  that  as  an  actual  fact  she 
heard  Miss  Euphemia  wonderin'  the  other  day 
how  come  the  right  shoulder  of  her  black  silk 
dress  to  wear  out  the  way  it  does.  She  had 
darned  it  twice,  an'  she  declared  she  never  had 
wo'e  the  dress  nowhere  but  to  church  mo'  'n  three 
or  four  times  in  thirteen  year. 

"Ain't  it  funny  to  think  she  hasn't  never 
thought  o'  the  friction  o'  them  hymn  -  books 
a-passin'  over  that  shoulder  ?  An'  neither  did 
wife  till  I  called  her  attention  to  it.  But  she 
promised  never  to  tell  it.  She  said  she  wouldn't 
dare  suggest  it  to  her,  an'  so  I  thought,  Brother 
Hatfield,  that  while  I  was  on  the  subject  I'd  ask 
you,  in  her  behalf,  would  you  mind — as  long  as 
she  has  to  pay  for  her  own  silk  dresses — would 
you  mind  liftin'  them  hymn-books  a  leetle  higher 
whilst  you're  a-passin'  that  shoulder-seam  ?  Wife 
tells  me  a  seam-darn  is  a  mighty  bothersome  one 
to  put  in,  on  account  of  its  havin'  to  be  spliced 
in  the  middle. 


A    SLENDER    ROMANCE  231 

ct  As  to  the  wear  an'  tear  of  the  top  o'  that  pew- 
rail,  why,  I  propose  to  refer  that  over  to  the  com- 
mittee on  church  buildin'  an'  repairs." 

The  table  was  by  this  time  in  such  an  uproar 
that  nothing  less  than  a  response  from  the  hith- 
erto silent  deacon  could  have  gained  a  hearing. 

The  little  man  had  fortunately  recovered  him- 
self somewhat,  and  was  ready  to  come  to  his  own 
rescue  with  the  laughing  reminder  that  he  was 
himself  chairman  of  the  committee  on  repairs, 
and  a  promise  that  he  would  call  a  meeting 
on  the  subject  whenever  it  should  become  seri- 
ous. 

The  deacon's  voice  was  slender  at  best,  but  its 
thin,  good-natured  response  commanded  atten- 
tion now ;  and,  indeed,  it  went  so  far  to  restore 
his  threatened  dignity  that,  after  a  little  random 
bantering,  the  subject  was  dropped. 

But  this  was  only  the  beginning.  Before  the 
next  sundown  everybody  in  Simpkinsville,  ex- 
cepting, of  course,  Miss  Euphemia,  had  laughed 
over  the  minister's  temerity,  and  declared  it  the 
"best  joke  they  had  ever  heard  in  their  lives" ; 
while  more  than  one  had  remarked  that  "ef 
Simpkinsville  knowed  what  side  their  bread  was 
buttered  on  they  wouldn't  let  Miss  Phemie  get 
a-holt  of  it." 

This  also  was  the  deacon's  chief  concern.     In- 


232  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

deed,  he  declared  to  himself  that  it  was  the  only- 
thing  he  cared  for  in  the  whole  affair.  As  for 
himself,  he  wouldn't  let  sech  foolishness  pester 
him  into  cloin'  any  different  to  the  way  he'd  been 
doin'  all  his  livelong  life — the  way  he'd  been 
raised  to  do. 

As  he  took  his  seat  behind  Miss  Enphemia  on 
the  following  Sunday,  however,  it  is  safe  to  say 
that  he  felt  a  tremor  of  embarrassment  on  his 
own  account ;  for  at  his  entrance  there  was  a 
very  definite  stir  throughout  the  congregation, 
not  to  mention  the  bobbing  together  in  pairs  of 
sundry  feathered  bonnets  near  him.  Yet,  even 
as  he  realized  the  delicacy  of  the  situation,  he 
could  not  help  running  his  eye  along  the  line  de- 
fining the  top  rail  of  Miss  Euphemia's  pew,  and 
the  marked  depression  he  saw  there  seemed  to 
run  in  a  quiver  up  and  down  his  spinal  col- 
umn for  the  space  of  some  minutes ;  and  when, 
finally,  in  desperation,  he  raised  his  eyes  a  little 
higher,  it  was  only  to  see  upon  Miss  Euphemia's 
shoulder  the  evenly  laid  stitches  of  a  careful 
darn. 

Somehow,  the  silken  threads  seemed  to  raise 
themselves  above  the  shiny  fabric,  so  that  he  saw 
them  clearly,  even  without  his  reading-glasses. 

He  knew  there  was  no  truth  in  the  minister's 
remark  about  the  wearing  of  his  own  sleeve,  and 


A   SLENDER   ROMANCE  233 

he  had  thought  him  jesting  throughout,  and  per- 
haps he  was.  Still,  here  was  the  darn.  The  dis- 
covery startled  him  so  that  his  mind  wandered 
during  the  entire  opening  prayer ;  and  when, 
presently,  a  hymn  was  given  out  he  became  so 
confused  that  after  he  had  presented  his  book — 
blushing,  he  felt,  like  a  school-boy — he  was  hor- 
rified to  discover  that  he  had  found  the  wrong 
place,  and  the  trying  ordeal  had  to  be  repeated. 
He  seemed  to  hear  the  minister  saying  "  one  ex- 
try,"  and  jotting  down  12,002  in  the  account  he 
was  reckoning  against  him,  as  he  changed  books 
a  second  time  for  one  hymn. 

His  state  of  mind  was  bad  enough,  but  when 
he  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book  only  to  see  a 
purplish-red  color  slowly  spreading  all  the  way 
around  the  back  of  Miss  Euphemia's  neck — well, 
he  could  only  turn  purple,  too. 

Evidently  she  had  heard  the  talk. 

But  here  be  it  said  that  in  describing  this  mo- 
ment ten  years  afterwards,  Miss  Euphemia  de- 
clared that  she  "hadn't  heard  a  breath  of  it/' 
and  that  she  ' '  didn't  know,  to  save  her  life,  why 
she  had  changed  color  that-a-way,  which  she  knew 
she  done,  because  for  a  second  or  so,  when  deacon 
passed  her  that  book,  seem  like  she  felt  every  eye 
in  Simpkinsville  on  her." 

This  seems  a  remarkable  statement,  and  yet 


234  IN   SIMPKINSVILLB 

the  writer  of  this  slender  romance  of  her  life 
believes  it  to  be  true,  for  Miss  Euphemia  would 
have  died  rather  than  verge  a  hair's-breadth  from 
the  exact  verities  in  word  or  deed.  Indeed,  it 
seems  to  the  writer  that  her  subsequent  conduct 
goes  far  to  confirm  her  statement.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  the  deacon  naturally  took  her  blushes  as 
proof  of  her  knowledge  of  the  affair.  She  not 
only  knew  it,  but  was  sensitive  on  the  subject. 
"  It  plagued  her." 

The  stress  of  the  situation  was  more  than  he 
could  stand ;  and,  although  somewhat  reassured 
when  her  wavering  alto  notes  came  in  timidly 
with  the  third  line  of  the  hymn,  he  failed  to  com- 
mand his  own  voice,  and  there  was  a  clear,  high 
tenor  missing  in  the  church  during  the  entire 
singing. 

He  sat  very  still,  in  seeming  attention  to  the 
service,  until  another  hymn  was  imminent. 
But  before  it  was  announced  the  unusual  still- 
ness of  his  mare,  tied  to  a  tree  outside  the 
window,  disturbed  him  so  that  he  was  impelled 
to  go  to  her  relief ;  and  it  was  only  after  a  pro- 
longed and  tedious  manipulation  of  the  reins  that 
he  was  able  to  return  to  the  church,  where,  in- 
stead of  disturbing  the  congregation  in  the  midst 
of  the  sermon,  he  slipped  noiselessly,  though  by 
no  means  unobserved,  into  a  seat  near  the  door. 


A   SLENDER   ROMANCE  235 

This  was  a  definite  and  somewhat  ignominions 
retreat,  and  so  it  was  regarded  by  the  delighted 
congregation,  now  on  tiptoe  of  expectation  for 
next  developments. 

If  Miss  Euphemia  had  not  before  heard  of  the 
minister's  joke  concerning  her  and  her  neighbor, 
she  heard  it  now,  from  all  sides.  Indeed,  before 
she  had  reached  the  chnrch  door  to-day,  one  of 
her  good  friends  had  expressed  surprise  at  "two 
sensible  people  like  her  and  deacon  takin'  a  little 
fun  so  seriously."  Another  even  went  so  far  as 
to  compare  the  respective  blushes  of  the  two  as 
viewed  from  the  rear  ;  while  a  third  declared  that 
she  thought  she'd  die  in  her  pew  for  the  want  of 
a  laugh  at  the  G-od-forsaken  look  in  the  deacon's 
face  when  he  got  up  an'  went  out  o'  church  to 
worry  his  horse. 

When  Miss  Euphemia  finally  made  them  un- 
derstand that  she  "  didn't  know  what  in  kingdom 
come  they  were  talkin'  about,"  more  than  one  of 
the  good  people  of  the  church  turned  away,  de- 
claring they  would  never  put  faith  in  human 
creature  again,  and  that  it  was  a  "pity  some 
folks  couldn't  see  the  backs  o'  their  own  necks 
befo'  they  openly  perjured  themselves — an'  in 
the  house  of  God  at  that." 

"  Yes,  an'  looks  like  a  thunder-storm  a-fixin' 
to  gether  this  minute,"  added  a  voice  outside 


236  IN"   SIMPKINSVILLE 

the  door.  "I'd  V  thought  she'd  V  been  afeerd 
o'  bein'  strnck  dead  by  lightnin'." 

And  still  another,  as  the  crowd  passed  down 
the  steps  : 

"The  Lord  has  gone  more  out  of  his  way  than 
that  to  make  examples  o'  people  thet  set  him  at 
defiance  that-a-way . " 

While  she  lingered  in  the  aisle  within,  listen- 
ing to  the  story  as  it  came  to  her  little  by  little 
from  many  lips,  the  color  came  and  went  in 
Miss  Euphemia's  thin  face  ;  and  when  she  final- 
ly turned  away  she  said,  simply,  though  her  head 
was  high  as  she  spoke  : 

"I'm  sorry  he  troubled  hisself.  He  needn't 
to've,  I'm  sure." 

It  is  probable  that  she  made  no  effort  to  be 
non-committal  in  this  speech  ;  still,  taking  the 
words  afterwards,  her  friends  found  them  un- 
satisfactory. 

There  was  that  in  the  mien  of  both  Miss 
Euphemia  and  the  deacon  during  the  week  fol- 
lowing this  most  interesting  episode  that  forbade 
any  reference  to  the  subject  in  their  presence 
even  by  such  of  their  worthy  and  intimate  friends 
as  declared  themselves  "jest  a-burstin'  to  plague 
their  lives  out  of  'em,"  and  "  nearly  dead  to  know 
what  they'll  do  next." 

A  week  is  a  long  time  in  Simpkinsville,  where 


A   SLENDER    ROMANCE  237 

time  is  reckoned  chiefly  either  hy  great  old 
clocks,  whose  long,,  ponderous  pendulums  seem 
to  he  lagging  with  the  village  movement,  or  by 
the  slow  insinuations  of  light  and  shadow  fol- 
lowing the  easy  comings  and  goings  of  the  never- 
hurrying  sun. 

In  inverse  ratio  to  her  sauntering  movement  is 
the  Simpkinsville  eagerness  over  a  village  event. 
Indeed,  she  is  wont  on  occasion  even  to  indulge 
in  playful  denunciation  of  her  own  slow  pace,  so 
far  outstripped  by  her  impatient  spirit.  And  so, 
wherever  two  or  three  were  congregated  during 
this  longest  of  long  weeks,  there  might  have 
been  heard  such  remarks  as  the  following, 
caught  up  at  random  during  a  half-hour  spent 
in  the  village  store  : 

"  Well,  old  Simpkinsville's  had  a  laugh,  any- 
how, an'  it's  in  the  deacon's  power  to  wake  her  up 
with  a  weddin',  ef  he  knows  how  to  take  a  hint." 

"Yas,  maybe  so,  though  there's  no  tellin'. 
Miss  Phemie  might  take  it  into  her  head  to  be 
contrary.     She's  had  her  own  way  so  long." 

"Well,  yas,  maybe  so;  but  I  look  for  him  to 
settle  it.  It  all  depends  on  the  way  he  conducts 
hisself  next  Sunday.  Seem  like  bad  luck  would 
have  it  thet  it  couldn't  'a'  been  settled  at  prayer- 
meetin'.  We  'ain't  had  sech  a  full  prayer-meetm' 
for  many  a  year." 


238  IK   SIMPKINSVILLE 

"Wife  says  her  b'lief  is  thet  Brother  Bowen 
insisted  on  Miss  Phemie  goin'  out  there  to  set 
up  with  that  sick  child  o'  his,  which  ain't  no 
mo'  'n  teethin',  jest  for  an  excuse  to  get  her  out 
o'  the  way  till  folks  would  have  time  to  get  over 
this  joke  o'  his.  You  see,  he  done  the  whole 
thing,  an'  he  was  about  ez  much  plagued  ez  the 
next  one  when  he  see  how  things  was  Sunday." 

"  My  opinion  is  thet  there's  some  liberties  thet 
oughtn't  to  be  took  with  folks  in  their  private 
affairs — not  even  by  a  minister  o'  the  gospel." 

"  Yas  ;  an'  't  ain't  everybody  thet  looks  well  in 
a  joke,  nohow.  I  never  did  see  deacon  at  sech  a 
disadvantage  in  my  life,  nor  Miss  Phemie  nei- 
ther." 

"  Eeckon  they'll  be  a  big  turnout  Sunday,  an' 
then,  like  ez  not,  Brother  Bowen  '11  git  deacon 
out  o'  the  way.  Take  my  word  for  it,  Brother 
Bowen  is  skeert." 

"Trouble  is  he  didn't  realize  how  hungry 
Simpkinsville  was  for  an  excitement.  Pore  old 
Simpkinsville  has  been  asleep  so  long  thet  when 
she  does  wake  up  she's  so  well  rested  she's  ready 
for  anything." 

There  was,  indeed,  an  unusual  attendance  at 
church  on  the  following  Sunday  morning,  even 
such  as  were  not  piously  inclined  coming  in  con- 
fessedly "  to    see    it   out."      While   there   were 


A    SLENDER    ROMANCE  239 

many  who  prophesied  that  the  deacon  would 
find  the  hymns  and  pass  them  over  the  pew  to 
his  neighbor  as  usual,  there  was  not  one  who 
would  not  secretly  have  felt  defrauded  of  a  sen- 
sation if  such  should  be  his  course. 

There  was  a  stir  all  over  the  church  when  at 
last  the  deacon  was  seen  tying  his  mare  outside 
the  window.  Just  at  this  moment  it  was  that 
Miss  Euphemia  walked  calmly  up  the  aisle, 
"  lookin'  jest  ez  cool  an'  unconcerned  ez  ef  all 
Simpkinsville  hadn't  turned  out  to  look  at  her." 
Such  was  the  disgusted  comment  of  one  of  her 
disapproving  friends  at  the  end  of  the  service. 
Going  first  to  her  accustomed  seat,  she  deliber- 
ately picked  up  her  hymn-book  and  foot-stool, 
and,  crossing  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  church, 
deposited  them  in  a  vacant  pew.  Then  she  sat 
down.  The  seat  she  selected  was  immediately 
in  front  of  an  unoccupied  one,  and  directly  back 
of  those  assigned  to  the  inmates  of  the  poor- 
house.  In  taking  it  she  had  voluntarily  isolated 
herself  from  any  possible  neighborly  courtesy. 
Indeed,  at  the  announcement  of  the  first  hymn, 
it  was  she  who  hastened  to  reverse  the  old  order 
by  quickly  finding  their  places  for  both  the  old 
people  who  sat  in  the  pew  before  her. 

The  deacon,  who  came  in  a  few  moments  later 
than  she,  did  not  know  that  she  had  arrived  un- 


240  IN   SIMPKIKSVILLE 

til  her  alto  voice  came  to  him  clear  and  strong 
from  across  the  church.  At  its  first  note  he 
reddened  to  the  roots  of  his  thin  hair,  and  his 
high  tenor,  bravely  enough  begun,  was  suddenly 
silent,  nor  was  it  heard  again  during  the  rest  of 
the  service. 

Those  who  kept  guard  over  his  every  move- 
ment— and  there  were  many  who  did  so — de- 
clared that  he  "  never  even  so  much  ez  cast  his 
eyes  acrost  the  church  du'in'  the  whole  morn- 
in\"  Indeed,  the  general  verdict  was  that  un- 
der circumstances  so  trying,  "mighty  few  men 
would  'a'  stood  their  ground  an'  acted  ez  well  ez 
what  deacon  did." 

As  to  Miss  Euphemia,  there  was  a  difference 
of  opinion.  Many  were  pleased  to  agree  that 
she  had  "  showed  sense,"  and  that  while,  in  the 
situation,  "some  would  V  acted  skittish  an* 
made  theirselves  an'  him  both  langhin'  -  stalks, 
she  never  made  no  to-do  about  it,  but  jest  quiet- 
ly put  a'  end  to  foolishness."  Others  there 
were  who  took  the  other  side,  and  dropped  their 
opinions  pretty  freely,  as  a  few  of  the  following 
remarks,  quoted  verbatim,  will  testify  : 

"  I  don't  say  she  didn't  act  ca'm,  but  in  my 
opinion  a  little  fluster  is  sometimes  mo'  becomin' 
to  a  woman  'n  what  this  everlastin'  ca'mness  is." 

"  Why,  th'  ain't  nothin'  thet  '11  draw  a  man  to 


A   SLENDER   ROMANCE  241 

a  woman  mo'  'n  for  her  to  fly  off  the  handle 
sometimes,  an'  to  need  takin'  in  hand." 

"Well,  of  co'se  them  thet  don't  need  don't 
get." 

"An'  besides,  'tain't  every  woman  that  wants 
to  be  took  in  hand." 

The  truth  is,  Miss  Euphemia's  easy  solution  of 
the  question  that  was  setting  all  Simpkinsville 
agog  was  a  distinct  disappointment  to  more  than 
half  the  village.  Of  course  it  was  supposed  that 
her  action  would  end  all  talk,  and  things  would 
immediately  settle  down  into  a  condition  even 
somewhat  more  prosaic  than  the  old  one,  inas- 
much as  at  least  one  hopeful  situation  was  elim- 
inated from  it. 

The  dominie  was,  indeed,  distinctly  unhappy 
over  the  affair,  which  he  insisted  on  considering 
a  "  breaking  up  of  pleasant  Christian  relations," 
for  which  he  held  himself  personally  responsible; 
and  he  often  declared  to  Miss  Enphemia  that  he 
"would  never  draw  a  happy  breath  till  she  went 
back  to  her  old  seat."  But  this,  of  course,  she 
would  not  do.  Miss  Euphemia  was  a  woman  of 
her  own  mind.  She  had  gently,  without  passion 
or  impatience,  taken  her  stand,  and  in  her  new 
position  she  seemed,  as  she  professed  to  be, 
"jest  ez  well  contented  an'  happy  ez  ever." 

Several  weeks  passed,  and,  excepting  for  the 


242  IN"   SIMPKINSVILLE 

fact  that  the  good  deacon's  tenor  had  never  been 
heard  in  the  church  since  the  day  of  his  discom- 
fiture, things  seemed  to  be  getting  back  into 
somewhat  the  old  condition.  Some  day  he 
would  sing,  and  then  everything  would  be  near- 
ly the  same  as  before.  Such  was  the  undefined 
hope  of  the  more  sensitive  souls  among  the  peo- 
ple. 

What  Miss  Euphemia  or  he  felt  in  their  in- 
most hearts  no  one  professed  to  know,  though 
from  his  silence  it  seemed  that  at  least  he  cared 
a  little.  Possibly,  if  she  had  not  cared  at  all, 
she  would  not  have  changed  her  seat.  Or  possi- 
bly, if  she  had  cared —  Who  can  read  another, 
and  be  sure  ? 

Sympathy  was  still  divided,  but  general  inter- 
est in  the  affair  was  visibly  waning,  when  one 
Sunday  morning  the  deacon,  who  happened  to 
be  a  trifle  late,  walked  up  the  aisle  as  usual,  but, 
instead  of  taking  his  seat,  he  simply  found  his 
book,  and,  crossing  over,  seated  himself  quietly 
in  the  vacant  pew  back  of  Miss  Euphemia.  At 
the  announcement  of  the  first  hymn  he  found  it 
in  his  own  book,  and  then,  leaning  forward,  cour- 
teously presented  it  to  her  as  of  old. 

When  she  turned  back  to  receive  it,  delivering 
her  own  in  return  according  to  the  old  form,  she 
smiled  frankly  in  the  face  of  the  entire  congre- 


"HE   EVEN   ESCORTS    HER   TO    HER   DOOR  " 


A    SLENDER   ROMANCE  243 

gation,  giving  him  thus  her  most  gracious  and 
perfect  welcome. 

The  deacon's  slender  tenor  sounded  almost 
full  and  fine  to  the  pleased  ears  of  all  present 
as  it  rose  in  modest  triumph  while  he  sang  the 
sacred  words  from  Miss  Euphemia's  book.  So 
delighted,  indeed,  was  every  one  that  some  of 
the  more  impulsive  among  them  could  not  re- 
frain from  expressing  their  pleasure  to  the  two 
as  they  walked  separately  down  the  aisle.  Of 
course  all  Simpkinsville  soon  rang  with  the  news, 
and  its  voice  was  for  once  unanimous  in  proph- 
esying a  romantic  denouement. 

And  who  shall  say  that  it  was  wrong  ?  To 
whom  is  it  given  to  define  the  border-lands  of 
romance,  forbidding  all  to  enter  save  those  who 
come  in  by  the  great  thronged  gate  where  the 
orange-flower  grows  ? 

Twenty  years  have  passed  since  the  incidents 
just  related,  and  the  deacon,  now  become  an 
elder  in  the  church,  still  sits  in  the  pew  behind 
Miss  Euphemia,  and  changes  books  with  her  for 
the  singing  of  the  hymns ;  and  occasionally, 
when  the  weather  is  very  bad,  he  even  escorts 
her  to  her  door.  Further  than  this  he  has  never 
gone. 

They  are  both  old  now.  It  is  said,  though  it 
may  not  be  so,  that  the   deacon   has  recently 


244  IN   SIMPKINSVILLE 

bought  a  lot  adjoining  hers  in  the  old  cemetery. 
It  would  be  pleasant  to  believe  this  to  be  true, 
and  that  he  is  pleased  to  wish  to  rest  at  last  be- 
side her,  awaiting  the  resurrection.  And  if  it 
be  the  divine  pleasure,  perhaps  he  even  hopes  to 
sit  behind  her  in  the  Great  Congregation,  and  to 
find  her  hymns  for  her. 


the  end 


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